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•m 


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KNEBWORTH   LIMITED    EDITION 


GODOLPHIN 


BY 


EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON 


(LORD    LYTTOy) 


WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

ESTES    AND     LAURIAT 

1892 


-:0^ 


KNEBIVORTH   LIMITED    EDITION. 
Limited  to  One  Thousand  Copies 

Wo,595 


.^s^tC4^:t^^J^~-'il^  -       // 


TYPOGRAPHY,  ELECTROTYPING,  AND 
PRINTING  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON. 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


9SS 


I' 

ill  ^ 


TO   COUNT   ALFKED   D'ORSAY. 


My  dear  Count  d'Orsay,  —  When  the  parentage  of  Godolphin 
was  still  unconfessed  and  unknown,  you  were  pleased  to  encourage  his 
first  struggles  with  the  world ;  now,  will  you  permit  the  father  he  has 
just  discovered  to  re-introduce  him  to  your  notice  ?  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
however,  that  my  unfilial  offspring,  having  been  so  long  disowned,  is  not 
sufficiently  grateful  for  being  acknowledged  at  last  ;  he  says  that  he 
belongs  to  a  very  numerous  family,  and,  wishing  to  be  distinguished 
from  his  brothers,  desires  not  only  to  reclaim  your  acquaintance,  but  to 
borrow  your  name.  Nothing  less  will  content  his  ambition  than  the 
most  public  opportunity  in  his  power  of  parading  his  obligations  to  the 
most  accomplished  gentleman  of  our  time.  "WiU  you,  then,  allow  him 
to  make  his  new  appearance  in  the  world  under  your  wing,  and  thus 
suffer  the  son  as  well  as  the  father  to  attest  the  kindness  of  your  heart 
and  to  boast  the  honour  of  your  friendship  ? 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Count  d'Orsay,  with  the  sincerest  regard. 
Yours,  very  faithfully  and  truly, 

E.   B.   L. 


iv;5y::s3o 


PREFACE  TO   GODOLPHIN. 


In  the  Prefaces  to  this  edition  of  my  works,  I  have  occa- 
sionally so  far  availed  myself  of  that  privilege  of  self-criti- 
cism which  the  French  comic  writer  M.  Picord  maintains 
or  exemphfies  in  the  collection  of  his  plays,  —  as,  if  not 
actually  to  sit  in  judgment  on  my  own  performances,  still 
to  insinuate  some  excuse  for  their  faults  by  extenuatory 
depositions  as  to  their  character  and  intentions.  Indeed,  a 
writer  looking  back  to  the  past  is  unconsciously  inclined  to 
think  that  he  may  separate  himself  from  those  children  of 
his  brain  which  have  long  gone  forth  to  the  world  ;  and 
though  he  may  not  expatiate  on  the  merits  his  paternal 
affection  would  ascribe  to  them,  that  he  may  speak  at 
least  of  the  mode  in  which  they  were  trained  and  reared, 
—  of  the  hopes  he  cherished,  or  the  objects  he  entertained, 
when  he  finally  dismissed  them  to  the  opinions  of  others 
and  the  ordeal  of  Fate  or  Time. 

For  mv  part,  I  own  that  even  when  I  have  thought  but 
little  of  the  value  of  a  work,  I  have  always  felt  an  interest 
in  the  author's  account  of  its  origin  and  formation ;  and 
willing  to  suppose  that  what  thus  affords  a  gratification  to 
my  own  curiosity  may  not  be  wholly  unattractive  to  others, 
I  shall  thus  continue  from  time  to  time  to  play  the  Showman 
to  my  own  machinery,  and  explain  the  principle  of  the 
mainspring  and  the  movement  of  the  wheels. 

This  novel  was  begun  somewhere  in  the  third  year  of 
my   authorship,   and   completed   in   the   fourth.      It   was. 


viii  PREFACE. 

therefore,  composed  almost  simultaneously  with  "  Eugene 
Aram,"  and  afforded  to  me  at  least  some  relief  from  the 
gloom  of  that  village  tragedy.  It  is  needless  to  observe 
how  dissimilar  in  point  of  scene,  character,  and  fable  the 
one  is  from  the  other ;  yet  they  are  alike  in  this,  —  that 
both  attempt  to  deal  with  one  of  the  most  striking  prob- 
lems in  the  spiritual  history  of  man ;  namely,  the  frustra- 
tion or  abuse  of  power  in  a  superior  intellect  originally 
inclined  to  good.  Perhaps  there  is  no  problem  that  more 
fascinates  the  attention  of  a  man  of  some  earnestness  at 
that  period  of  his  life  when  his  eye  first  disengages 
itself  from  the  external  phenomena  around  him,  and  his 
curiosity  leads  him  to  examine  the  cause  and'  account  for 
the  effect ;  when,  to  cite  reverently  the  words  of  the  wisest, 
"  He  applies  his  heart  to  know  and  to  search,  and  to  seek 
out  wisdom  and  the  reason  of  things,  and  to  know  the 
wickedness  of  folly,  even  of  foolishness  and  madness." 

In  "  Eugene  Aram,"  the  natural  career  of  genius  is 
arrested  by  a  single  crime ;  in  "  Godolphin,"  a  mind  of 
inferior  order,  but  more  fanciful  colouring,  is  wasted  away 
by  the  indulgence  of  those  morbid  sentiments  which  are  the 
nourishment  of  egotism,  and  the  gradual  influence  of  the 
frivolities  which  make  the  business  of  the  idle.  Here, 
the  Demon  tempts  or  destroys  the  hermit  in  his  solitary 
cell ;  there,  he  glides  amidst  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the 
world,  and  whispers  away  the  soul  in  the  voice  of  his  soft 
familiars.  Indolence  and  Pleasure. 

Of  all  my  numerous  novels, "  Pelham  "  and  "  Godolphin  " 
are  the  only  ones  which  take  their  absolute  groundwork  in 
what  is  called  "  The  Fashionable  World."  I  have  sought 
in  each  to  make  the  general  composition  in  some  harmony 
with  the  principal  figure  in  the  foreground.  Pelham  is 
represented  as  almost  wholly  unsusceptible  to  the  more 
poetical  influences.     He  has  the  physical  compound,  which, 


PREFACE.  IX 

versatile  and  joyous,  amalgamates  easily  with  the  world  ; 
he  views  life  with  the  lenient  philosophy  that  Horace  com- 
mends in  Aristippus  ;  he  laughs  at  the  follies  he  shares, 
and  is  ever  ready  to  turn  into  uses  ultimately  (if  indi- 
rectly) serious  the  frivolities  that  only  serve  to  sharpen 
his  wit,  and  augment  that  peculiar  expression  which  we 
term  "  knowledge  of  the  world."  In  a  word,  dispel  all  his 
fopperies,  real  or  assumed,  he  is  still  the  active  man  of 
crowds  and  cities,  determined  to  succeed,  and  gifted  with 
the  ordinary  qualities  of  success.  Godolphin,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  the  man  of  poetical  temperament,  out  of  his  place 
alike  among  the  trifling  idlers  and  the  bustling  actors  of 
the  world  ;  wanting  the  stimulus  of  necessity,  or  the  higher 
motive  which  springs  from  benevolence,  to  give  energy  to 
his  powers  or  definite  purpose  to  his  fluctuating  desires ; 
not  strong  enough  to  break  the  bonds  that  confine  his 
genius,  not  supple  enough  to  accommodate  its  movements 
to  their  purpose.  He  is  the  moral  antipodes  to  Pelham. 
In  evading  the  struggles  of  the  world,  he  grows  indifferent 
to  its  duties  ;  he  strives  with  no  obstacles  ;  he  can  triumph 
in  no  career.  Represented  as  possessing  mental  qualities 
of  a  higher  and  a  richer  nature  than  those  to  which  Pelham 
can  pretend,  he  is  also  represented  as  very  inferior  to  him 
in  constitution  of  character,  and  he  is  certainly  a  more 
ordinary  type  of  the  intellectual  trifler. 

The  characters  grouped  around  Godolphin  are  those  with 
which  such  a  man  usually  associates  his  life.  They  are 
designed  to  have  a  certain  grace,  a  certain  harmony  with 
one  form  or  the  other  of  his  two-fold  temperament ;  namely, 
either  its  conventional  elegance  of  taste  or  its  constitutional 
poetry  of  idea.  But  all  alike  are  brought  under  varying 
operations  of  similar  influences ;  for  whether  in  Saville, 
Constance,  Fanny,  or  Lucilla,  the  picture  presented  is 
still  the  picture  of  gifts  misapplied,  of  life  misunderstood. 


X  PREFACE. 

The  Preacher  who  exclaimed  "  Vanity  of  vanities !  all 
is  vanity "  perhaps  solved  his  own  mournful  saying, 
when  he  added  elsewhere,  "  This  only  have  I  found,  that 
God  made  men  upright,  but  they  have  sought  out  many 
inventions." 

This  work  was  first  published  anonymously,  and  for  that 
reason  perhaps  it  has  been  slow  in  attaining  to  its  rightful 
station  amongst  its  brethren,  whose  parentage  at  first  was 
openly  acknowledged.  If  compared  with  "  Pelham "  it 
might  lose,  at  the  first  glance,  but  would  perhaps  gain  on 
any  attentive  reperusal. 

For  although  it  must  follow  from  the  inherent  difference 
in  the  design  of  the  two  works  thus  referred  to  that  in 
"  Godolphin  "  there  can  be  little  of  the  satire  or  vivacity 
which  have  given  popularity  to  its  predecessor,  yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  in  "  Godolphin "  there  ought  to  be  a  more 
faithful  illustration  of  the  even  polish  that  belongs  to 
luxurious  life,  of  the  satiety  that  pleasure  inflicts  upon 
such  of  its  votaries  as  are  worthy  of  a  higher  service. 
The  subject  selected  cannot  admit  the  same  facility  for 
observation  of  things  that  lie  on  the  surface  ;  but  it  may 
well  lend  itself  to  subtler  investigation  of  character,  allow 
more  attempt  at  pathos,  and  more  appeal  to  reflection. 

Regarded  as  a  story,  the  defects  of  "  Godolphin  "  most 
apparent  to  myself  are  in  the  manner  in  which  Lucilla  is 
re-introduced  in  the  later  chapters,  and  in  the  final  catas- 
trophe of  the  hero.  There  is  an  exaggerated  romance  in 
the  one,  and  the  admission  of  accident  as  a  crowning 
agency  in  the  other,  which  my  maturer  judgment  would 
certainly  condemn,  and  which  at  all  events  appear  to  me 
out  of  keeping  with  the  natural  events,  and  the  more 
patient  investigation  of  moral  causes  and  their  conse- 
quences, from  which  the  previous  interest  of  the  tale  is 
sought  to  be  attained.     On  the  other  hand,  if  I  may  pre- 


PREFACE.  XI 

sume  to  conjecture  the  most  probable  claim  to  favour 
which  the  work,  regarded  as  a  whole,  may  possess,  it  may 
possibly  be  found  in  a  tolerably  accurate  description  of 
certain  phases  of  modern  civilization,  and  in  the  sugges- 
tion of  some  truths  that  may  be  worth  considering  in  our 
examination  of  social  influences  or  individual  conduct. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 


Page 
The  Death-bed  of  John  Vernon.  —  His  dying  Words.  —  Description  of 

his  Daughter,  the  Heroine.  —  The  Oath 1 

CHAPTER    II. 

Remark  on  the  Tenure  of  Life.  —  The  Coffins  of  Great  Men  seldom  neg- 
lected. —  Constance  takes  Refuge  with  Lady  Erpingham.  —  The 
Heroine's  Accomplishments  and  Character.  —  The  Manoeuvring 
Temperament 6 

CHAPTER    III. 

The  Hero  introduced  to  our  Reader's  Notice.  —  Dialogue  between  him- 
self and  his  Father.  —  Percy  Godolphin's  Character  as  a  Boy.  — 
The  Catastrophe  of  his  School  Life 10 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Percy's  first  Adventure  as  a  Free  Agent 13 

CHAPTER    V. 

The  Mummers.  —  Godolphin  in  Love.  —  The  Effect  of  Fanny  Millin- 
ger's  Acting  upon  him.  —  The  two  Offers.  —  Godolphin  quits  the 
Players 16 

CHAPTER    VL 
Percy  Godolphin  the  Guest  of  Saville.  — He  enters  the  Life-Guards  and 

becomes  the  Fashion 20 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    VII. 

Page 

Saville  excused  for  having  human  Affections.  —  Godolphin  sees  One 

whom  he  never  sees  again.  —  The  New  Actress 23 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

Godolphin's  Passion  for  the  Stage.  —  The  Difference  it  engendered  in 

his  Habits  of  Life 26 

CHAPTER    IX. 

The  Legacy.  —  A  New  Deformity  in  Saville.  —  The  Nature  of  Worldly 

Liaisons.  —  Godolphin  leaves  England 28 

CHAPTER   X. 
The  Education  of  Constance's  Mind 32 

CHAPTER  XL 

Conversation  between  Lady  Erpingham  and  Constance.  —  Further  Par- 
ticulars of  Godolphin's  Family,  etc 34 

CHAPTER  XIL 

Description  of  Godolphin's  House.  —  The  First  Interview.  —  Its  Effect 

on  Constance 37 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

A   Ball  Announced.  —  Godolphin's  Visit  to  Wendover  Castle.  —  His 

Manners  and  Conversation 43 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

Conversation  between  Godolphin  and  Constance.  —  The  Country  Life 

and  the  Town  Life 45 

CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Feelings  of  Constance  and  Godolphin  towards  each  other. — The 
Distinction  in  their  Characters.  —  Remarks  on  the  Effects  produced 
by  the  World  upon  Godolphin.  —  The  Ride.  —  Rural  Descriptions. 
—  Omens.  —  The  first  indistinct  Confession 47 

CHAPTER   XVI. 

Godolphin's  Return  Home.  —  His  Soliloquy.  —  Lord  Erpingham's  Arri- 
val at  Wendover  Castle.  —  The  Earl  described.  —  His  Account  of 
Godolphin's  Life  at  Rome 54 


CONTENTS.  XV 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Page 

Constance  at  her  Toilet.  —  Her  Feelings.  —  Her  Character  of  Beauty 
described.  — The  Ball. —The  Duchess  of  Wiustoun  and  her 
Daughter.  —  An  Induction  from  the  Nature  of  Female  Rivalries.  — 
Jealousy  in  a  Lover.  —  Impertinence  retorted.  —  Listeners  never 
hear  Good  of  themselves.  —  Remarks  on  the  Amusements  of  a 
Public  Assembly.  —The  Supper.  — The  Falseness  of  seeming  Gay- 
ety.  -Various  Reflections,  New  and  True.  — What  passes  between 
Godolphin  and  Constance 53 

CHAPTER   XVin. 
The  Interview.  —  The  Crisis  of  a  Life 75 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

A  Rake  and  Exquisite  of  the  best  (worst)  School.  —  A  Conversation  on 
a  thousand  Matters.  —  The  Declension  of  the  "  Sui  Profusus  "  into 
the  "  Alieni  Appetens  " 8.3 

CHAPTER   XX. 

Fanny  Millinger  once  more.  —  Love.  —  Woman.  —  Books.  —  A  hundred 
Topics  touched  on  the  Surface.  —  Godolphin's  State  of  Mind  more 
minutely  examined.  —  The  Dinner  at  Saville's 92 

CHAPTER    XXL 

An  Event  of  great  Importance  to  the  principal  Actors  in  this  History. 

—  Godolphin  a  second  time  leaves  England 100 

CHAPTER    XXIL 

The  Bride  alone.  —  A  Dialogue  political  and  matrimonial.  —  Con- 
stance's Genius  for  Diplomacy.  —  The  Character  of  her  Assemblies. 

—  Her  Conquest  over  Lady  Delville 10-3 

CHAPTER    XXin. 

An  insight  into  the  real  Grande  Monde,  —  being  a  Search  behind  the 

rose-coloured  Curtains 108 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
The  Married  State  of  Constance HI 


x^'i  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

The    Pleasure  of    retaliating    Humiliation.  —  Constance's  Defence  of   ^^^^ 
Fashion.  — Remarks    on    Fashion.  —  Godolphin's    whereabout.— 
Fanny  Millinger's   Character  of  herself .  — Want  of  Courage  in 
Moralists       - 

CHAPTER    XXVI. 

The  Visionary  and  his  Daughter.  -An  Englishman,  such  as  Foreigners 

imagine  the  English , ,  „ 

CHAPTER  XXVn. 

A  Conversation  little  appertaining  to  the  Nineteenth  Century.  — Re- 

searchesiutohumanFate.— The  Prediction     ........     125 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

The  Youth  of  Lncilla  Volktman.  —  A  mysterious  Conversation.  —  The 

Return  of  One  unlocked  for    .     .  ,o- 

lOD 

CHAPTER    XXIX. 

The  Effect  of  Years  and  Experience.  — The  Italian  Character      ...     143 

CHAPTER    XXX. 

Magnetism. -Sympathy. -The  Return  of  Elements  to  Elements    .     .     146 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 

A  Scene. -Lucilla's  strange  Conduct.  -  Godolphin  passes  through  a 

severe  Ordeal.  —  Egeria's  Grotto,  and  what  there  happens     .     .     .     150 

CHAPTER    XXXII. 

The  Weakness  of  all  Virtue  springing  only  from  the  Feelings  .     ...     162 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
Return  to  Lady  Erpingham.  -  Lady  Erpingham  falls  ill.  -  Lord  Er- 
pmgham  resolves  to  go  Abroad.  -  Plutarch  upon  Musical  Instru- 
ments. -  Party  at  Erpingham  House.  -  SaviUe  on  Society  and  the 
Taste  for  the  Little.  -  David  Mandeville.  -  Women,  their  Influ- 
ence and  Education.  —  The  Necessity  of  an  Object.  -  Religion  1 69 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

Page 

Ambition  vindicated.  —  The  Home  of  Godolphin  and  LuciUa.  — Lu- 
cilla's  Miud.  —  The  Effect  of  happy  Love  on  Female  Talent.  —  The 
Eve  of  Farewell.  —  Lucilla  alone.  —  Test  of  a  Woman's  Affection  .     177 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Godolphin  at  Rome.  —  The  Cure  for  a  morbid  Idealism.  —  His  Em- 
barrassment in  regard  to  Lucilla.  —  The  Rencontre  with  an  old 
Friend.  —  The  Colosseum.  —  A  Surprise 


188 


CHAPTER   XXXVL 

Dialogue  between  Godolphin  and  Saville.  —  Certain  Events  explained. 
—  Saville's  Apology  for  a  bad  Heart.  —  Godolphin's  confused  Senti- 
ments for  Lady  Erpingham 19* 

CHAPTER  XXXVn. 
An  Evening  with  Constance 1  ^8 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Constance's  undiminished  Love  for  Godolphin.  —  Her  Remorse  and 
her  Hope.  —  The  Capitol.  —  The  different  Thoughts  of  Godolphin 
and  Constance  at  the  View. — The  tender  Expressions  of  Constance    201 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Lucilla's  Letter.  —  The  Effect  it  produces  on  Godolphin 205 

CHAPTER  XL. 
Tivoli.  —  The  Siren's  Cave.  —  The  Confession 210 

CHAPTER  XLL 

Lucilla.  — The  Solitude.  — The  Spell.  — The  Dream  and  the  Resolve     .     214 

CHAPTER  XLH. 
Joy  and  Despair 219 

CHAPTER  XLm. 
Love  strong  as  Death,  and  not  less  bitter 225 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
Godolphin 228 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

Page 
The  Declaration.  —  The  approaching  Nuptials.  —  Is  the  Idealist  con- 
tented ?     230 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

The  Bridals.  —  The  Accident.  —  The  first  lawful  Possession  of  Love      .     233 

CHAPTER   XL VII. 
News  of  LuciUa 235 

CHAPTER  XLYIII. 
In  which  two  Persons,  permanently  united,  discover  that  no  Tie  can 

produce  Union  of  Minds 237 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  Return  to  London.  —  The  eternal  Nature  of  Disappointment.  — 

Fanny  MiUinger.  —  Her  House  and  Supper 241 

CHAPTER  L. 

Godolphin's  Soliloquy.  —  He  becomes  a  Man  of  Pleasure  and  a  Patron 
of  the  Arts.  —  A  new  Character  shadowed  forth ;  for  as  we  ad- 
vance, whether  in  Life  or  its  Representation,  Characters  are  more 
faint  and  dimly  drawn  than  in  the  earlier  Part  of  our  Career      .     .     246 

CHAPTER  LI. 

Crodolphin's  Course  of  Life.  —  Influence  of  Opinion  and  of  Ridicule 
on  the  Minds  of  privileged  Orders.  —  Lady  Erpingham's  Friend- 
ship with  George  the  Fourth.  —  His  Manner  of  Living 250 

CHAPTER  LII. 

Radclyffe  and  Godolphin  converse.  —  The  Varieties  of  Ambition  .     .     .     253 

CHAPTER  LIII. 

Fanny  behind  the  Scenes.  —  Reminiscences  of  Youth. — The  Univer- 
sality of  Trick.  —  The  Supper  at  Fanny  Millinger's. — Talk  on  a 
thousand  Matters,  equally  light  and  true.  —  Fanny's  Song      .     .     .     255 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
The  Career  of  Constance.  —  Real  State  of  her  Feelings  towards  Godol- 
phin.—  Rapid  Succession  of  political  Events. — Canning's  Admin- 
istration. —  Catholic  Question.  — Lord  Grey's  Speech.  — Canning's 
Death 262 


CONTENTS.  xix 

CHAPTER  LV. 
The  Death  of  George  IV.  —  The  political  Situation  of  Parties,  and  of 

Lady  Erpinghaui 2^C 

CHAPTER  LVI. 
The  Rou€  has  become  a  Valetudinarian.  —  News.  —  A  Fortune-Teller  .    269 

CHAPTER  LVn. 
Superstition,  —  its  wonderful  Effects 272 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 

The  Empire  of  Time  and  of  Love. —  The  proud   Constance  grown 

weary  and  humble.  —  An  Ordeal 274 

CHAPTER  LIX. 
Constance  makes  a  Discovery  that  touches  and  enlightens  her  as  to 
Godolphin's   Nature.  —  An  Event,  although  in  private  Life,  not 
without  its  Interest 279 

CHAPTER  LX. 
The  Reform  Bill.  —  A  very  short  Chapter 282 

CHAPTER  LXI. 

The  Soliloquy  of  the  Soothsayer.  —  An  Episodical  Mystery,  intro- 
duced as  a  Type  of  the  many  Things  in  Life  that  are  never  ac- 
counted for.  —  Gratuitous  Deviations  from  our  common  Career       .     283 

CHAPTER  LXn. 

In  which  the  common  Life  glides  into  the  Strange,  —  equally  true,  but 

the  Truth  not  equally  acknowledged 288 

CHAPTER   LXIII. 
A  Meeting  between  Constance  and  the  Prophetess 290 

CHAPTER  LXIV. 
Lucilla's  Flight.  —  The  Perplexity  of  Lady  Erpingham.  —  A  Change 
comes  over    Godolphin's     Mind.  —  His  Conversation  with   Rad- 
clyffe.  —  General  Election.  —  Godolphin  becomes  a  Senator   .     .    .     299 


XX  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  LXV. 

Page 
New  Views  of    a  privileged   Order.  —  The  Death-Bed  of    Augustus 

Saville 308 

CHAPTER  LXVI. 

The  Journey  aud  the  Surprise.  —  A  Walk  in  the  Summer  Night.  —  The 

Stars,  and  the  Association  that  the  Memory  makes  with  Nature      .    312 

CHAPTER   LXVn. 

The  full  Renewal  of  Love.  —  Happiness  produces  Fear,  and  in  To-day 

already  walks  To-morrow 318 

CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

The  last  Conversation  between  Godolphin  and  Constance.  —  His 
Thoughts  and  solitary  Walk  amidst  the  Scenes  of  his  Youth.  — 
The  Letter.  —  The  Departure 321 

CHAPTER  THE   LAST. 
A  dread  Meeting.  —  The  Storm.  —  The  Catastrophe 326 


LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Page 
GoDOLPHiN  MEETING  THE  TRAVELLING  COMPANY    .     .     .       Frontispiece 

Constance fi2 

LUCILLA  . 159 

Fanny  and  Godolpuin 261 


GODOLPHIN 


GODOLPHIK 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    DEATH-BED    OF     JOHN    VERNON.  —  HIS     DYING    "WORDS.  — 
DESCRIPTION   OF   HIS   DAUGHTER,  THE   HEROINE. —  THE  OATH. 

"Is  the  night  calm,  Constance?" 

"Beautiful!  the  moon  is  up." 

"  Open  the  shutters  wider,  there.     It  is  a  beautiful  night. 
How  beautiful!     Come  hither,  my  child." 

The  rich  moonlight  that  now  shone  through  the  windows 
streamed  on  little  that  it  could  invest  with  poetical  attrac- 
tion. The  room  was  small,  though  not  squalid  in  its  charac 
ter  and  appliances.  The  bed-curtains,  of  a  dull  chintz,  were 
drawn  back,  and  showed  the  form  of  a  man,  past  middle  age, 
propped  by  pillows,  and  bearing  on  his  countenance  the  marks 
of  approaching  death.  But  what  a  countenance  it  still  was ! 
The  broad,  pale,  lofty  brow ;  the  fine,  straight,  Grecian  nose ; 
the  short,  curved  lip;  the  full,  dimpled  chin;  the  stamp  of 
genius  in  every  line  and  lineament, —  these  still  defied  dis- 
ease, or  rather  borrowed  from  its  very  ghastliness  a  more  im- 
pressive majesty.  Beside  the  bed  was  a  table  spread  with 
books  of  a  motley  character, — here  an  abstruse  system  of  Cal- 
culations on  Finance;  there  a  volume  of  wild  Bacchanalian 
Songs;  here  the  lofty  aspirations  of  Plato's  "Phsedon;"  and 
there  the  last  speech  of  some  County  Paris  on  a  Malt  Tax : 
old  newspapers  and  dusty  pamphlets  completed  the  intel- 
lectual litter;  and  above  them  rose,  mournfully  enough,  the 
tall  spectral  form  of  a  half-emptied  phial,  and  a  chamber 
candle-stick,  crested  by  its  extinguisher. 

1 


^  GODOLPHIN. 

A  light  step  approached  the  bedside,  and  opposite  the  dy- 
ing man  now  stood  a  girl,  who  might  have  seen  her  thirteenth 
year.  But  her  features  —  of  an  exceeding,  and  what  may  be 
termed  a  regal  beauty  —  were  as  fully  developed  as  those  of 
one  who  had  told  twice  her  years;  and  not  a  trace  of- the 
bloom  or  the  softness  of  girlhood  could  be  marked  on  her 
countenance.  Her  complexion  was  pale  as  the  whitest  mar- 
ble, but  clear  and  lustrous;  and' her  raven  hair,  parted  over 
her  brow  in  a  fashion  then  uncommon,  increased  the  statue- 
like and  classic  effect  of  her  noble  features.  The  expression 
of  her  countenance  seemed  cold,  sedate,  and  somewhat  stern; 
but  it  might,  in  some  measure,  have  belied  her  heart;  for, 
when  turned  to  the  moonlight,  you  might  see  that  her  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears,  though  she  did  not  weep;  and  you 
might  tell  by  the  quivering  of  her  lip,  that  a  little  hesitation 
an  replying  to  any  remark  from  the  sufferer  arose  from  her 
difficulty  in  commanding  her  emotions. 

"Constance,"  said  the  invalid,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he 
seemed  to  have  been  gazing  with  a  quiet  heart  on  the  soft 
skies,  that,  blue  and  eloquent  with  stars,  he  beheld  through 
the  unclosed  windows, —  " Constance,  the  hour  is  coming;  I 
feel  it  by  signs  which  I  cannot  mistake.  I  shall  die  this 
night." 

"0  God!  my  Father!  my  dear,  dear  Father!"  broke  from 
Constance's  lips,  "do  not  speak  thus  — do  not;  I  will  go  to 
Doctor  —  " 

"No,  child,  no!  I  loathe,  I  detest  the  thought  of  help. 
They  denied  it  me  while  it  was  yet  time.  They  left  me  to 
starve  or  to  rot  in  jail,  or  to  hang  myself!  They  left  me  like 
a  dog,  and  like  a  dog  I  will  die!  I  would  not  have  one  iota 
taken  from  the  justice,  the  deadly  and  dooming  weight,  of  my 
dying  curse."  Here  violent  spasms  broke  on  the  speech  of 
the  sufferer;  and  when,  by  medicine  and  his  daughter's  at- 
tentions, he  had  recovered,  he  said,  in  a  lower  and  calmer 
key;  "Is  all  quiet  below,  Constance?  Are  all  in  bed,— the 
landlady,  the  servants,  our  fellow-lodgers?" 

"All,  my  Father." 

"Ay;  then  I  shall  die  happy.     Thank  Heaven,  you  are  my 


GODOLPHIN.  o 

only  nurse  and  attendant.  I  remember  the  day  when  I  was 
ill  after  one  of  tlieir  rude  debauches.  Ill !  —  a  sick  headache, 
a  fit  of  the  spleen,  a  spoiled  lapdog's  illness!  Well:  they 
wanted  me  that  night  to  support  one  of  their  paltry  meas- 
ures,—  their  parliamentary  measures;  and  I  had  a  prince 
feeling  my  pulse,  and  a  duke  mixing  my  draught,  and  a 
dozen  earls  sending  their  doctors  to  me.  I  was  of  use  to 
them  then!  Poor  me!  Eead  me  that  note,  Constance, — 
Flamborough's  note.  Do  you  hesitate?  Eead  it,  I  say!" 
Constance  trembled  and  complied. 

My  dear  Yerxox,  — I  am  really  au  desespoir  to  hear  of  your  mel- 
ancholy state,  —  so  sorry  I  cannot  assist  you ;  but  you  know  my  embar- 
rassed circumstances.  By  the  by,  I  saw  Ms  Royal  Highness  yesterday. 
"  Poor  Vernon !  "  said  he ;  "  would  a  hundred  pounds  do  him  any  good  ?  " 
So  we  don't  forget  you,  mon  cher.  Ah,  how  we  missed  you  at  the  Beef- 
steak !     Xever  shall  we  know  again  so  glorious  a  bon  vivant.     You  would 

laugh  to  hear  L attempting  to  echo  your  old  jokes.     But  time 

presses :  I  must  be  off  to  the  House.     You  know  what  a  motion  it  is ! 

"Would  to  Heaven  you  were  to  bring  it  on  instead  of  that  ass  T . 

Adieu !     I  wish  I  could  come  and  see  you  ;  but  it  would  break  my  heart. 
Can  I  send  you  any  books  from  Hookham's  ? 

Yours  ever, 

Flamborough. 

"This  is  the  man  whom  I  made  Secretary  of  State,"  said 
Vernon.  "  Very  well !  oh,  it 's  very  well,—  very  well  indeed. 
Let  me  kiss  thee,  my  girl.  Poor  Constance!  You  will  have 
good  friends  when  I  am  dead!  They  will  be  proud  enough  to 
be  kind  to  Vernon's  daughter,  when  Death  has  shown  them 
that  Vernon  is  a  loss.  You  are  very  handsome,— your  poor 
mother's  eyes  and  hair,  my  father's  splendid  brow  and  lip; 
and  yoxir  figure  even  now  so  stately!  They  will  court  you: 
you  will  have  lords  and  great  men  enough  at  your  feet;  but 
you  will  never  forget  this  night,  nor  the  agony  of  your 
father's  death-bed  face,  and  the  brand  they  have  burned  in 
his  heart.  And  now,  Constance,  give  me  the  Bible  in  which 
you  read  to  me  this  morning :  that  will  do.  Stand  away  from 
the  light  and  fix  your  eyes  on  mine,  and  listen  as  if  your  soul 
were  in  your  ears. 


4  GODOLPHIX. 

"When  I  was  a  young  man,  toiling  my  way  to  fortune 
through  the  labours  of  the  Bar, —  prudent,  cautious,  indefatig- 
able, confident  of  success, —  certain  lords,  who  heard  I  pos- 
sessed genius  and  thought  I  might  become  their  tool,  came  to 
me,  and  besought  me  to  enter  parliament.  I  told  them  I  was 
poor,  was  lately  married,  that  my  public  ambition  must  not 
be  encouraged  at  the  expense  of  my  private  fortunes.  They 
answered  that  they  pledged  themselves  those  fortunes  should 
be  their  care.  I  yielded;  I  deserted  my  profession;  I  obeyed 
their  wishes;  I  became  famous  —  and  a  ruined  man!  They 
could  not  dine  without  me;  they  could  not  sup  without  me; 
they  could  not  get  drunk  without  me;  no  pleasure  was  sweet 
but  in  my  company.  What  mattered  it  that,  while  I  minis- 
tered to  their  amusement,  I  was  necessarily  heaping  debt 
upon  debt,  accumulating  miseries  for  future  years,  laying  up 
bankruptcy,  and  care  and  shame  and  a  broken  heart  and  an 
early  death?  But  listen,  Constance!  Ai^e  you  listening, — 
attentively?  Well!  note  now,  I  am  a  just  man.  I  do  not 
blame  my  noble  friends,  my  gentle  patrons,  for  this.  No;  if 
I  were  forgetful  of  my  interests,  if  I  preferred  their  pleasure 
to  my  happiness  and  honour,  that  was  my  crime,  and  I  de- 
serve the  punishment!  But  look  you:  time  went  by,  and  my 
constitution  was  broken;  debts  came  upon  me;  I  could  not 
pay;  men  mistrusted  my  word;  my  name  in  the  country  fell! 
With  my  health,  my  genius  deserted  me;  I  was  no  longer 
useful  to  my  party ;  I  lost  my  seat  in  parliament ;  and  when 
I  was  on  a  sick-bed  —  you  remember  it,  Constance  —  the 
bailiffs  came,  and  tore  me  away  for  a  paltry  debt,  —  the  value 
of  one  of  those  suppers  the  prince  used  to  beg  me  to  give  him. 
From  that  time  my  familiars  forsook  me!  — not  a  visit,  not  a 
kind  act,  not  a  service  for  him  whose  day  of  work  was  over ! 
'Poor  Vernon's  character  was  gone!  Shockingly  involved, 
could  not  perform  his  promises  to  his  creditors,  always  so 
extravagant,  quite  unprincipled,  must  give  him  up!  ' 

"  In  those  sentences  lies  the  secret  of  their  conduct.  They 
did  not  remember  that  for  them,  hj  them,  the  character  was 
gone,  the  promises  broken,  the  ruin  incurred !  They  thought 
not  how  I  had  served  them;  how  my  best  years  had  been  de- 


GODOLPIIIX.  5 

voted  to  advance  them, —  to  ennoble  their  cause  in  the  lying 
page  of  History!  All  this  was  not  thought  of:  my  life  was 
reduced  to  two  epochs, —  that  of  use  to  them,  that  not.  Dur- 
ing the  first,  I  was  honoured ;  during  the  last,  I  was  left  to 
starve,  to  rot!  "Who  freed  me  from  prison;  who  protects  me 
now?  One  of  my  '  party,'  my  '  noble  friends,'  my  *  honour- 
able, right  honourable  friends  '  ?  No !  a  tradesman  whom  I 
once  served  in  my  holiday,  and  who  alone,  of  all  the  world, 
forgets  me  not  in  my  penance.  You  see  gratitude,  friend- 
ship, spring  up  only  in  middle  life;  they  grow  not  in  high 
stations ! 

"And  now,  come  nearer,  for  my  voice  falters,  and  I  would 
have  these  words  distinctly  heard.  Child,  girl  as  you  are, 
you  I  consider  pledged  to  record,  to  fulfil  my  desire,  my 
curse !  Lay  your  hand  on  mine :  swear  that  through  life  to 
death,  —  swear!  You  speak  not!  repeat  my  words  after  me" 
—  Constance  obeyed  —  "through  life  to  death;  through  good, 
through  ill,  through  weakness,  through  power,  you  will  de- 
vote yourself  to  humble,  to  abase  that  party  from  whom  your 
father  received  ingratitude,  mortification,  and  death!  Swear 
that  you  will  not  marry  a  poor  and  powerless  man,  who  can- 
not minister  to  the  ends  of  that  solemn  retribution  I  invoke  I 
Swear  that  you  will  seek  to  marry  from  amongst  the  great; 
not  through  love,  not  through  ambition,  but  through  hate, 
and  for  revenge !  You  will  seek  to  rise  that  you  may  humble 
those  who  have  betrayed  me !  In  the  social  walks  of  life  you 
will  delight  to  gall  their  vanities;  in  state  intrigues  you  will 
embrace  every  measure  that  can  bring  them  to  their  eternal 
downfall.  For  this  great  end  you  will  pursue  all  means. — 
What!  you  hesitate?  Eepeat,  repeat,  repeat!  —  You  will  lie, 
cringe,  fawn,  and  think  vice  not  vice,  if  it  bring  you  one  jot 
nearer  to  Revenge!  With  this  curse  on  my  foes,  I  entwine 
my  blessing,  dear,  dear  Constance,  on  you, —  you,  who  have 
nursed,  watched,  all  but  saved  me!  God,  God  bless  you,  my 
child!  "     And  Vernon  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  two  hours  after  this  singular  scene,  and  exactly  in 
the  third  hour  of  morning,  that  Vernon  woke  from  a  short  and 
troubled  sleep.     The  gray  dawn  (for  the  time  was  the  height 


o  GODOJ.PIim. 

of  summer)  already  began  to  labour  through  the  shades  and 
against  the  stars  of  night.  A  raw  and  comfortless  chill  crept 
over  the  earth,  and  saddened  the  air  in  the  death-chamber. 
Constance  sat  by  her  father's  bed,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him, 
and  her  cheek  more  wan  than  ever  by  the  pale  light  of  that 
crude  and  cheerless  dawn.  When  Vernon  woke,  his  eyes, 
glazed  with  death,  rolled  faintly  towards  her,  fixing  and 
dimming  in  their  sockets  as  they  gazed;  his  throat  rattled. 
But  for  one  moment  his  voice  found  vent;  a  ray  shot  across 
his  countenance  as  he  uttered  his  last  words,— words  that 
sank  at  once  and  eternally  to  tlie  core  of  his  daughter's  heart, 
—  words  that  ruled  her  life,  and  sealed  her  destiny :  "  Con- 
stance, remember  —  the  Oath  —  Eevenge  I  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

REMARK  ON  THE  TENURE  OF  LIFE.  —  THE  COFFINS  OF  GREAT 
MEN  SELDOM  NEGLECTED.  —  CONSTANCE  TAKES  REFUGE 
WITH  LADY  ERPINGHAM.  THE  HEROINE's  ACCOMPLISH- 
MENTS AND  CHARACTER.  THE  MANCEUVRING  TEMPERA- 
MENT. 

What  a  strange  life  this  is !  What  puppets  we  are !  How 
terrible  an  enigma  is  Fate !  I  never  set  my  foot  without  my 
door  but  what  the  fearful  darkness  that  broods  over  the  next 
moment  rushes  upon  me.  How  awful  an  event  may  hang 
over  our  hearts!  The  sword  is  always  above  us,  seen  or 
invisible ! 

And  with  this  life,  this  scene  of  darkness  and  dread,  some 
men  would  have  us  so  contented  as  to  desire,  to  ask  for 
no  other! 

Constance  was  now  without  a  near  relation  in  the  world. 
But  her  father  predicted  rightly :  vanity  supplied  the  place 
of  affection.     Vernon,  who  for  eighteen  months  preceding  his 


GODOLPIIIN.  ' 

death  had  struggled  with  the  sharpest  afflictions  of  want,— 
Vernon,  deserted  in  life  by  all,  was  interred  with  the  insult- 
ing ceremonials  of  pomp  and  state.  Six  nobles  bore  his  pall; 
long  trains  of  carriages  attended  his  funeral;  the  journals 
were  filled  with  outlines  of  his  biography  and  lamentations 
at  his  decease.  They  buried  him  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and 
they  made  subscriptions  for  a  monument  in  the  very  best  sort 
of  marble.  Lady  Erpingham,  a  distant  connection  of  the 
deceased,  invited  Constance  to  live  with  her;  and  Constance 
of  course  consented,  for  she  had  no  alternative. 

On  the  day  that  she  arrived  at  Lady  Erpingham's  house, 
in  Hill  Street,  there  were  several  persons  present  in  the 
drawing-room. 

"I  fear,  poor  girl,"  said  Lady  Erpingham,— for  they  were 
talking  of  Constance's  expected  arrival,— -'I  fear  that  she 
will  be  quite  abashed  by  seeing  so  many  of  us,  and  under  such 
unhappy  circumstances." 

"How  old  is  she?  "  asked  a  beauty. 
"About  thirteen,  I  believe." 
"Handsome?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was  seven  years  old.  She 
promised  then  to  be  very  beautiful ;  but  she  was  a  remarkably 
shy,  silent  child." 

"Miss  Vernon,"  said  the  groom  of  the  chambers,  throwing 
open  the  door. 

With  the  slow  step  and  self-possessed  air  of  womanhood, 
but  with  a  far  haughtier  and  far  colder  mien  than  women 
commonly  assume,  Constance  Vernon  walked  through  the  long 
apartment,  and  greeted  her  future  guardian.  Though  every 
eye  was  on  her,  she  did  not  blush;  though  the  Queens  of  the 
London  World  were  round  her,  her  gait  and  air  were  more 
royal  than  all.  Every  one  present  experienced  a  revulsion  of 
feeling.  They  were  prepared  for  pity;  this  was  no  case  in 
which  pity  could  be  given.  Even  the  words  of  protection 
died  on  Lady  Erpingham's  lip,  and  she  it  was  who  felt  bash- 
ful and  disconcerted. 

I  intend  to  pass  rapidly  over  the  years  that  elapsed  till 
Constance  became  a  woman.     Let  us  glance  at  her  education. 


8  GODOLPHIN. 

Vei-non  had  not  only  had  her  instructed  in  the  French  and 
Italian,  but,  a  deep  and  impassioned  scholar  himself,  he  had 
taught  her  the  elements  of  the  two  great  languages  of  the  an- 
cient world.  The  treasures  of  those  languages  she  afterwards 
conquered  of  her  own  accord. 

Lady  Erpingham  had  one  daughter,  who  married  when 
Constance  had  reached  the  age  of  sixteen.  The  advantages 
Lady  Eleanor  Erpingham  possessed  in  her  masters  and  her 
governess  Constance  shared.  Miss  Vernon  drew  well,  and 
sang  divinely;  but  she  made  no  very  great  proficiency  in  the 
science  of  music.  To  say  truth,  her  mind  was  somewhat  too 
stern,  and  somewhat  too  intent  on  other  subjects,  to  surrender 
to  that  most  jealous  of  accomplishments  the  exclusive  devo- 
tion it  requires. 

But  of  all  her  attractions,  and  of  all  the  evidences  of  her 
cultivated  mind,  none  equalled  the  extraordinary  grace  of  her 
conversation.  Wholly  disregarding  the  conventional  leading- 
strings  in  which  the  minds  of  young  ladies  are  accustomed  to 
be  held, —  leading-strings,  disguised  by  the  name  of  "proper 
diffidence  "  and  "  becoming  modesty,"  —  she  never  scrupled  to 
share,  nay,  to  lead,  discussions  even  of  a  grave  and  solid  na- 
ture. Still  less  did  she  scruple  to  adorn  the  common  trifles 
that  make  the  sum  of  conversation  with  the  fascinations  of  a 
wit,  which,  playful,  yet  deep,  rivalled  even  the  paternal  source 
from  which  it  was  inherited. 

It  seems  sometimes  odd  enough  to  me,  that  while  young 
ladies  are  so  sedulously  taught  the  accomplishments  that  a 
husband  disregards,  they  are  never  taught  the  great  one  he 
would  prize.  They  are  taught  to  be  exhibitors;  he  wants  a 
companion.  He  wants  neither  a  singing  animal,  nor  a  draw- 
ing animal,  nor  a  dancing  animal:  he  wants  a  talking  animal. 
But  to  talk  they  are  never  taught;  all  they  know  of  conversa- 
tion is  slander,  and  that  "comes  by  nature." 

But  Constance  did  talk  beautifully, —  not  like  a  pedant  or 
blue  or  a  Frenchwoman.  A  child  would  have  been  as  much 
charnied  with  her  as  a  scholar;  but  both  would  have  been 
charmed.  Her  father's  eloquence  had  descended  to  her;  but 
in  him  eloquence   commanded,    in  her  it  won.     There  was 


GODOLPHIX.  9 

another  trait  she  possessed  in  common  with  her  father:  Ver- 
non (as  most  disappointed  men  are  wont)  had  done  the  world 
injustice  by  his  accusations.  It  was  not  his  poverty  and  his 
distresses  alone  which  had  induced  his  part}'  to  look  coolly 
on  his  declining  day.  They  Avere  not  without  some  apparent 
excuse  for  desertion, —  they  doubted  his  sincerity.  It  is  true 
that  it  was  without  actual  cause.  Xo  modern  politician  had 
ever  been  more  consistent.  He  had  refused  bribes,  though 
poor;  and  place,  though  ambitious.  But  he  was  essentially  — 
here  is  the  secret  —  essentially  an  intrigua7it.  Bred  in  the 
old  school  of  policy,  he  thought  that  manoeuvring  was  wis- 
dom, and  duplicity  the  art  of  governing.  Like  Lysander,^ 
he  loved  plotting,  yet  neglected  self-interest.  There  was  not 
a  man  less  open,  or  more  honest.  This  character,  so  rare  in 
all  countries,  is  especially  so  in  England.  Your  blunt  squires, 
your  politicians  at  Bellamy's,  do  not  comprehend  it.  They 
saw  in  Vernon  the  arts  which  deceive  enemies,  and  they 
dreaded  lest,  though  his  friends,  thej^  themselves  should  be 
deceived.  This  disposition,  so  fatal  to  Vernon,  his  daughter 
inherited.  With  a  dark,  bold,  and  passionate  genius,  which 
in  a  man  would  have  led  to  the  highest  enterprises,  she 
linked  the  feminine  love  of  secrecy  and  scheming.  To  borrow 
again  from  Plutarch  and  Lysander,  "When  the  skin  of  the 
lion  fell  short,  she  was  quite  of  opinion  that  it  should  be 
eked  out  with  the  fox's." 

1  Plutarch  :  Life  of  Lysander. 


10  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  HERO  INTRODUCED  TO  OUR  READEr's  NOTICE.  —  DIALOGUE 

BETWEEN      HIMSELF      AND      HIS      FATHER.   PERCY      GODOL- 

PHIn's    CHARACTER     AS    A    BOY.  THE     CATASTROPHE     OF 

HIS     SCHOOL     LIFE. 

"Percx".  remember  that  it  is  to-morrow  you  will  return  to 
school, "  said  Mr.  Godolphin  to  his  only  son, 

Percy  pouted,  and  after  a  momentary  silence  replied,  "No, 
Father,  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Mr.  Saville's.  He  has  asked  me 
to  spend  a  month  with  him ;  and  he  says  rightly  that  I  shall 
learn  more  with  him  than  at  Dr.  Shallowell's,  where  I  am 
already  head  of  the  sixth  form." 

*'  Mr.  Saville  is  a  coxcomb,  and  you  are  another !  "  replied 
the  father,  who,  dressed  in  an  old  flannel  dressing-gown,  with 
a  worn  velvet  cap  on  his  head,  and  cowering  gloomily  over  a 
wretched  fire,  seemed  no  bad  personification  of  that  mixture 
of  half-hypochondriac,  half-miser,  which  he  was  in  reality. 
"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  going  to  town,  sir,  or  —  " 

"Father,"  interrupted  Percy,  in  a  cool  and  nonchalant  tone, 
as  he  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  straight  and  shrewdly  on 
the  paternal  face, —  "Father,  let  us  understand  each  other. 
My  schooling,  I  suppose,  is  rather  an  expensive  affair?  " 

"  You  may  well  say  that,  sir !  Expensive !  it  is  frightful, 
horrible,  ruinous!  Expensive!  £20  a  year  board  and  Latin; 
five  guineas  washing;  five  more  for  writing  and  arithmetic. 
Sir,  if  I  were  not  resolved  that  you  should  not  want  education, 
though  you  may  want  fortune,  I  should  —  yes,  I  should  — 
What  do  you  mean,  sir?  —  you  are  laughing!  Is  this  your 
respect,  your  gratitude  to  your  father?  " 

A  slight  shade  fell  over  the  bright  and  intelligent  counte- 
nance of  the  boy. 

"Don't  let  us  talk  of  gratitude,"  said  he,  sadly;  "Heaven 
knows  what  either  you  or  I  have  to  be  grateful  for!     Fortune 


GODOLPHIX.  11 

has  left  to  your  proud  name  but  these  bare  walls  and  a  handful 
of  barren  acres;  to  me  she  gave  a  father's  affection, —  not 
such  as  Nature  had  made  it,  but  cramped  and  soured  by 
misfortunes." 

Here  Percy  paused,  and  his  father  seemed  also  struck  and 
affected.  "Let  us,"  renewed  in  a  lighter  strain  this  singular 
boy,  who  might  have  passed,  by  some  months,  his  sixteenth 
year,  — "let  us  see  if  we  cannot  accommodate  matters  to  our 
mutual  satisfaction.  You  can  ill  afford  my  schooling,  and  I 
am  resolved  that  at  school  I  will  not  stay.  Saville  is  a  rela- 
tion of  ours ;  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to  me ;  he  has  even  hinted 
that  he  may  leave  me  his  fortune ;  and  he  has  promised,  at 
least,  to  afford  me  a  home  and  his  tuition  as  long  as  I  like. 
Give  me  free  passport  hereafter  to  come  and  go  as  I  list,  and 
I  in  turn  will  engage  never  to  cost  you  another  shilling. 
Come,  sir,  shall  it  be  a  compact?  " 

"  You  wound  me,  Percy, "  said  the  father,  with  a  mournful 
pride  in  his  tone;  "T  have  not  deserved  this,  at  least  from 
you.  You  know  not,  boy,  you  know  not  all  that  has  hard- 
ened this  heart;  but  to  you  it  has  not  been  hard,  and  a  taunt 
from  you, —  yes,  that  is  the  serpent's  tooth!  " 

Percy  in  an  instant  was  at  his  father's  feet;  he  seized  both 
his  hands,  and  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  tears.  "  Forgive 
me,"  he  said,  in  broken  words;  "I  —  I  meant  not  to  taunt 
you.  I  am  but  a  giddy  boy!  Send  me  to  school!  do  with  me 
as  you  will !  " 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head  gently,  "you 
know  not  what  pain  a  son's  bitter  word  can  send  to  a  parent's 
heart.  But  it  is  all  natural,  perfectly  natural!  You  would 
reproach  me  with  a  love  of  money,  it  is  the  sin  to  which 
youth  is  the  least  lenient.  But  what !  can  I  look  round  the 
world  and  not  see  its  value,  its  necessity?  Year  after  year, 
from  my  first  manhood,  I  have  toiled  and  toiled  to  preserve 
from  the  hammer  these  last  remnants  of  my  ancestors'  re- 
mains. Year  after  year  fortune  has  slipped  from  my  gi'asp; 
and,  after  all  my  efforts,  and  towards  the  close  of  a  long  life, 
I  stand  on  the  very  verge  of  penury.  But  you  cannot  tell  — 
no  man  whose  heart  is  not  seared  with  many  years  can  tell  or 


12  GODOLPHIN. 

can  appreciate  —  the  motives  that  have  formed  my  character. 
You,  however,"  —  and  his  voice  softened  as  he  laid  his  hand 
on  his  son's  head, —  "you,  however, —  the  gay,  the  bold,  the 
young, —  should  not  have  your  brow  crossed  and  your  eye 
dimmed  by  the  cares  that  surround  me.  Go !  I  will  accom- 
pany you  to  town;  I  will  see  Saville  myself.  If  he  be  one 
with  whom  my  son  can  at  so  tender  an  age  be  safely  trusted, 
you  shall  pay  him  the  visit  you  wish." 

Percy  would  have  replied,  but  his  father  checked  him;  and 
before  the  end  of  the  evening,  the  father  had  resolved  to  for- 
get as  much  as  he  pleased  of  the  conversation. 

The  elder  Godolphin  was  one  of  those  characters  on  whom 
it  is  vain  to  attempt  making  a  permanent  impression.  The 
habits  of  his  mind  were  durably  formed:  like  waters,  they 
yielded  to  any  sudden  intrusion,  but  closed  instantly  again. 
Early  in  life  he  had  been  taught  that  he  ought  to  marry  an 
heiress  for  the  benefit  of  his  estate, —  his  ancestral  estate; 
the  restoration  of  which  he  had  been  bred  to  consider  the 
grand  object  and  ambition  of  life.  His  views  had  been 
strangely  baffled;  but  the  more  they  were  thwarted  the  more 
pertinaciously  he  clung  to  them.  Naturally  kind,  generous, 
and  social,  he  had  sunk  at  length  into  the  anchorite  and  the 
miser.  All  other  speculations  that  should  retrieve  his  ances- 
tral honours  had  failed;  but  there  is  one  speculation  that 
never  fails, — the  speculation  of  saving  /  It  was  to  this  that 
he  now  indissolubly  attached  himself.  At  moments  he  was 
open  to  all  his  old  habits ;  but  such  moments  were  rare  and 
few.  A  cold,  hard,  frosty  penuriousness  was  his  prevalent 
characteristic.  He  had  sent  his  son,  with  eighteenpence  in 
his  pocket,  to  a  school  of  £20  a  year,  where,  naturally  enough, 
he  learned  nothing  but  mischief  and  cricket;  yet  he  conceived 
that  his  son  owed  him  eternal  obligations. 

Luckily  for  Percy,  he  was  an  especial  favourite  with  a  cer- 
tain not  uncelebrated  character  of  the  name  of  Saville;  and 
Saville  claimed  the  privilege  of  a  relation  to  supply  him  with 
money  and  receive  him  at  his  home.  Wild,  passionate,  fond 
to  excess  of  pleasure,  the  young  Godolphin  caught  eagerly  at 
these  occasional  visits;  and  at  each  his  mind,  keen  and  pene- 


GODOLPIIIX.  13 

trating  as  it  naturally  was,  took  new  flights,  and  revelled  in 
new  views.  He  was  already  the  leader  of  his  school,  the  tor- 
ment of  the  master,  and  the  lover  of  the  master's  daughter. 
He  was  sixteen  years  old,  but  a  character.  A  secret  pride,  a 
secret  bitterness,  and  an  open  wit  and  recklessness  of  bearing, 
rendered  him  to  all  seeming  a  boy  more  endowed  with  ener- 
gies than  affections ;  yet  a  kind  word  from  a  friend's  lips  was 
never  without  its  effect  on  him,  and  he  might  have  been  led  by 
the  silk  while  he  would  have  snapped  the  chain.  But  these 
were  his  boyish  traits  of  mind:  the  world  soon  altered  them. 

The  subject  of  the  visit  to  Saville  was  not  again  touched 
upon.  A  little  reflection  showed  Mr.  Godolphin  how  nuga- 
tory were  the  promises  of  a  schoolboy  that  he  should  not  cost 
his  father  another  shilling;  and  he  knew  that  Saville's  house 
was  not  exactly  the  spot  in  which  economy  was  best  learned. 
He  thoughf  it,  therefore,  more  prudent  that  his  son  should 
return  to  school. 

To  school  went  Percy  Godolphin;  and  about  three  weeks 
afterwards,  Percy  Godolphin  was  condemned  to  expulsion  for 
returning,  with  considerable  unction,  a  slap  in  the  face  that 
he  had  received  from  Dr.  Shallowell.  Instead  of  waiting  for 
his  father's  arrival,  Percy  made  up  a  small  bundle  of  clothes, 
let  himself  drop,  by  the  help  of  the  bed-curtains,  from  the 
window  of  the  room  in  which  he  was  confined,  and  towards 
the  close  of  a  fine  summer's  evening  found  himself  on  the 

highroad  between and  London,  with  independence  at  his 

heart  and  —  Saville's  last  gift  —  ten  guineas  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTEPv   TV. 

Percy's  first  advexture  as  a  free  agent. 

It  was  a  fine,  picturesque  outline  of  road  on  which  the 
young  outcast  found  himself  journeying,  whither  he  neither 
knew  nor  cared.     His  heart  was  full  of  enterprise  and  the  un- 


14  GODOLPHIN. 

fledged  valour  of  inexperience.  He  had  proceeded  several 
miles,  and  the  dusk  of  the  evening  was  setting  in,  when  he 
observed  a  stage-coach  crawling  heavily  up  a  hill,  a  little 
ahead  of  him,  and  a  tall,  well-shaped  man  walking  alongside 
of  it,  and  gesticulating  somewhat  violently.  Godolphin  re- 
marked him  with  some  curiosity;  and  the  man,  turning 
abruptly  round,  perceived,  and  in  his  turn  noticed  very  in- 
quisitively, the  person  and  aspect  of  the  young  traveller. 

"And  how  now?"  said  he,  presently,  and  in  an  agreeable, 
though  familiar  and  unceremonious  tone  of  voice ;  "  whither 
are  you  bound  this  time  of  day?  " 

"It  is  no  business  of  yours,  friend,"  said  the  boy,  with  the 
proud  petulance  of  his  age;  "mind  what  belongs  to  yourself." 

"You  are  sharp  on  me,  young  sir,"  returned  the  other; 
"but  it  is  our  business  to  be  loquacious.  Know,  sir,"  —  and 
the  stranger  frowned,  —  "  that  we  have  ordered  many  a  taller 
fellow  than  yourself  to  execution  for  a  much  smaller  inso- 
lence than  you  seem  capable  of." 

A  laugh  from  the  coach  caused  Godolphin  to  lift  up  his 
eyes,  and  he  saw  the  door  of  the  vehicle  half -open,  as  if  for 
coolness,  and  an  arch  female  face  looking  down  on  him. 

"You  are  merry  on  me,  I  see,"  said  Percy;  "come  out,  and 
I  '11  be  even  with  you,  pretty  one." 

The  lad}'^  laughed  yet  more  loudly  at  the  premature  gal- 
lantry of  the  traveller;  but  the  man,  without  heeding  her, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  Percy's  shoulder,  said, — 

"Pray,  sir,  do  you  live  at  B ?  "  naming  the  town  they 

were  now  approaching. 

"iSTot  I,"  said  Godolphin,  freeing  himself  from  the 
intrusion. 

"You  will,  perhaps,  sleep  there?" 

"Perhaps  I  shall." 

"You. are  too  young  to  travel  alone." 

"And  you  are  too  old  to  make  such  impertinent  remarks," 
retorted  Godolphin,  reddening  with  anger. 

"Faith,  I  like  this  spirit,  my  Hotspur,"  said  the  stranger, 
coolly.  "  If  you  are  really  going  to  put  up  for  the  night  at 
B ,  suppose  we  sup  together?  " 


GODOLPHIX.  15 

"And  who  and  what  are  you?"  asked  Percy,  bluntly. 

"Anything  and  everything!  in  other  words,  an  actor!  " 

"And  the  young  lady?  " 

"  Is  our  prima  donna.  In  fact,  except  the  driver,  the  coach 
holds  none  but  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  our  company. 

"We  have  made  an  excellent  harvest  at  A ,  and  we  are  now 

on  our  way  to  the  theatre  at  B ;  pretty  theatre  it  is  too, 

and  has  been  known  to  hold  seventy-one  pounds  eight  shil- 
lings." Here  the  actor  fell  into  a  revery;  and  Percy,  moving 
nearer  to  the  coach-door,  glanced  at  the  damsel,  who  returned 
the  look  with  a  laugh  which,  though  coquettish,  was  too  low 
and  musical  to  be  called  bold. 

"  So  that  gentleman,  so  free  and  easy  in  his  manners,  is  not 
your  husband?  " 

"Heaven  forbid!  Do  you  think  I  should  be  so  gay  if  he 
were?  But,  pooh!  what  can  you  know  of  married  life?  Ko!  " 
she  continued,  with  a  pretty  air  of  mock  dignity ;  "  I  am  the 
Belvidera,  the  Calista,  of  the  company, —  above  all  control, 
all  husbanding,  and  reaping  thirty -three  shillings  a  week." 

"But  are  you  above  lovers  as  well  as  husbands?"  asked 
Percy,  with  a  rakish  air,  borrowed  from  Saville. 

"  Bless  the  boy !  Xo ;  but  then  my  lovers  must  be  at  least 
as  tall,  and  at  least  as  rich,  and,  I  am  afraid,  at  least  as  old, 
as  myself." 

"Don't  frighten  yourself,  my  dear,"  returned  Percy;  "7 
was  not  about  to  make  love  to  you." 

"Were  you  not?  Yes,  you  were,  and  you  knov/  it.  But 
why  will  you  not  sup  with  us?" 

"  WTiy  not,  indeed  ?  "  thought  Percy,  as  the  idea,  thus  more 
enticingly  put  than  it  was  at  first,  pressed  upon  him.  "If 
you  ask  me,"  he  said,  "I  will." 

"  I  do  ask  you,  then, "  said  the  actress ;  and  here  the  hero 
of  the  company  turned  abruptly  round  with  a  theatrical 
start,  and  exclaimed,  "To  sup  or  not  to  sup?  that  is  the 
question." 

"To  sup,  sir,"  said  Godolphin. 

"Very  well!  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Had  you  not  better 
mount  and  rest  yourself  in  the  coach?     You  can  take  my 


16  GODOLPHIX. 

place  —  I  am  studying  a  new  part.     We  have  two  miles  far- 
ther to  B yet." 

Percy  accepted  the  invitation,  and  was  soon  by  the  side  of 
the  pretty  actress.  The  horses  broke  into  a  slow  trot,  and 
thus  delighted  with  his  adventure,  the  son  of  the  ascetic 
Godolphin,  the  pupil  of  the  courtly  Saville,  entered  the  town 
of  B — — ,  and  commenced  his  first  independent  campaign  in 
the  great  tcorld. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

THE     MUMMERS.  —  GODOLPHIN     IN      LOVE.  —  THE     EFFECT     OF 

FANNY  MILLINGER's  ACTING  UPON  HIM.  THE  TWO  OFFERS. 

GODOLPHIN    QUITS    THE    PLAYERS. 

Our  travellers  stopped  at  the  first  inn  in  the  outskirts  of 
the  town.  Here  they  were  shown  into  a  large  room  on  the 
ground-floor,  sanded,  with  a  long  table  in  the  centre ;  and  be- 
fore the  supper  was  served,  Percy  had  leisure  to  examine  all 
the  companions  with  whom  he  had  associated  himself. 

In  the  first  place,  there  was  an  old  gentleman,  of  the  age  of 
sixty-three,  in  a  bob-wig,  and  inclined  to  be  stout,  who  always 
played  the  lover.  He  was  equally  excellent  in  the  pensive 
Eomeo  and  the  bustling  Rapid.  He  had  an  ill  way  of  talking 
off  the  stage,  partly  because  he  had  lost  all  his  front  teeth, — 
a  circumstance  which  made  him  avoid,  in  general,  those  parts 
in  which  he  had  to  force  a  great  deal  of  laughter.  Next, 
there  was  a  little  girl  of  about  fourteen,  who  played  angels, 
fairies,  and,  at  a  pinch,  was  very  effective  as  an  old  woman. 
Thirdly,  there  was  our  free-and-easy  cavalier,  who,  having  a 
loud  voice  and  a  manly  presence,  usually  performed  the 
tyrant.  He  was  great  in  Macbeth,  greater  in  Bombastes 
Purioso.  Fourthly,  came  this  gentleman's  wife,  a  pretty, 
slattemish   woman,   much  painted.     She  usually  performed 


GODOLPHIX.  17 

the  second  female, —  the  confidante,  the  chambermaid, —  the 
Emilia  to  the  Desdemona.  And  fifthly,  was  Percy's  new  in- 
amorata,—  a  girl  of  about  one-and-twenty,  fair,  with  a  nez 
retrousse :  beautiful  auburn  hair,  that  was  always  a  little  di- 
shevelled; the  prettiest  mouth,  teeth,  and  dimple  imaginable ; 
a  natural  colour;  and  a  person  that  promised  to  incline  here- 
after towards  that  roundness  of  proportion  which  is  more  dear 
to  the  sensual  than  the  romantic.  This  girl,  whose  name  was 
Fanny  Millinger,  was  of  so  frank,  good-humoured,  and  lively 
a  turn,  that  she  was  the  idol  of  the  whole  company,  and  her 
superiority  in  acting  was  never  made  a  matter  of  jealousy. 
Actors  may  believe  this,  or  not,  as  they  please. 

"But  is  this  all  your  company?  "  said  Percy. 

"All?  no!  "  replied  Panny,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  curl- 
ing up  her  tresses  by  the  help  of  a  dim  glass.  "  The  rest  are 
provided  at  the  theatre  along  with  the  candle-snuffer  and 
scene-shifters  part  of  the  fixed  property.  Why  won't  you 
take  to  the  stage?  I  wish  you  would!  you  would  make  a  very 
respectable  —  page. " 

"  Upon  my  word !  "  said  Percy,  exceedingly  offended. 

"  Come,  come ! "  cried  the  actress,  clapping  her  hands,  and 
perfectly  unheeding  his  displeasure,  "  why  don't  you  help  me 
off  with  my  cloak;  why  don't  you  set  me  a  chair;  why  don't 
you  take  this  great  box  out  of  my  way;  why  don't  you  — 
Heaven  help  me !  "  and  she  stamped  her  little  foot  quite  seri- 
ously on  the  floor.     "  A  pretty  person  for  a  lover  you  are !  " 

"Oho!  then  I  am  a  lover,  you  acknowledge?  " 

"Nonsense!  get  a  chair  next  me  at  supper." 

The  young  Godolphin  was  perfectly  fascinated  by  the  lively 
actress ;  and  it  was  with  no  small  interest  that  he  stationed 
himself  the  following  night  in  the  stage-box  of  the  little 

theatre  at ,  to  see  how  his  Fanny  acted.     The  house  was 

tolerably  well  filled,  and  the  play  was  "  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer." The  male  parts  were,  on  the  whole,  respectably  man- 
aged; though  Percy  was  somewhat  surprised  to  observe  that  a 
man,  who  had  joined  the  corps  that,  morning,  blessed  with  the 
most  solemn  countenance  in  the  world, —  a  fine  Eoman  nose, 
and  a  forehead  like  a  sage's, —  was  now  dressed  in  nankeen 

2 


18  GODOLPHIN. 

tights,  and  a  coat  without  skirts,  splitting  the  sides  of  the 
gallery  in  the  part  of  Tony  Lumpkin.  But  into  the  heroine 
Fanny  Millinger  threw  a  grace,  a  sweetness,  a  simple  yet 
dignified  spirit  of  true  love,  that  at  once  charmed  and  aston- 
ished all  present.  The  applause  was  unbounded;  and  P.ercy 
Godolphin  felt  proud  of  himself  for  having  admired  one  whom 
every  one  else  seemed  also  resolved  upon  admiring. 

When  the  comedy  was  finished,  he  went  behind  the  scenes, 
and  for  the  first  time  felt  the  rank  which  intellect  bestows. 
This  idle  girl,  Avith  whom  he  had  before  been  so  familiar; 
who  had  seemed  to  him,  boy  as  he  was,  only  made  for  jesting 
and  coquetry  and  trifling,  he  now  felt  to  be  raised  to  a  sudden 
eminence  that  startled  and  abashed  him.  He  became  shy  and 
awkward,  and  stood  at  a  distance  stealing  a  glance  towards 
her,  but  without  the  courage  to  approach  and  compliment 
her. 

The  quick  eye  of  the  actress  detected  the  effect  she  had 
produced.  She  was  naturall}'-  pleased  at  it,  and  coming  up  to 
Godolphin,  she  touched  his  shoulder,  and  with  a  smile  ren- 
dered still  more  brilliant  by  the  rouge  yet  unwashed  from  the 
dimpled  cheeks,  said,  "AYell,  most  awkward  swain,  no  flat- 
tery ready  for  me?  Go  to!  you  won't  suit  me:  get  yourself 
another  empress." 

"You  have  pleased  me  into  respecting  you,"  said  Godolphin. 

There  was  a  delicacy  in  the  expression  that  was  vevy  char- 
acteristic of  the  real  mind  of  the  speaker,  though  that  mind 
was  not  yet  developed ;  and  the  pretty  actress  was  touched  by 
it  at  the  moment,  though,  despite  the  grace  of  her  acting,  she 
was  by  nature  far  too  volatile  to  think  it  at  all  advantageous 
to  be  resjjected  in  the  long  run.  She  did  not  act  in  the  after- 
piece, and  Godolphin  escorted  her  home  to  the  inn. 

So  long  as  his  ten  guineas  lasted  —  which  the  reader  will 
conceive  was  not  very  long  —  Godolphin  stayed  with  the  gay 
troop,  as  the  welcome  lover  of  its  chief  ornament.  To  her  he 
confided  his  name  and  history:  she  laughed  heartily  at  the 
latter, —  for  she  was  one  of  Venus's  true  children,  fond  of 
striking  mirth  out  of  all  subjects.  "But  what,"  said  she, 
patting  his  cheek  affectionately,    "what  should  hinder  you 


GODOLPHIX.  19 

from  joining  us  for  a  little  while?  I  could  teach  you  to  be 
an  actor  in  three  lessons.  Come  now,  attend!  It  is  but  a 
mere  series  of  tricks, —  this  art  that  seems  to  you  so 
admirable." 

Godolphin  grew  embarrassed.  There  was  in  him  a  sort  of 
hidden  pride  that  could  never  endure  to  subject  itself  to  the 
censure  of  others.  He  had  no  propensity  to  imitation,  and  he 
had  a  strong  susceptibility  to  the  ridiculous.  These  traits  of 
mind  thus  early  developed  —  which  in  later  life  prevented  his 
ever  finding  fit  scope  for  his  natural  powers,  which  made  him 
too  proud  to  bustle,  and  too  philosophical  to  shine  —  were  of 
service  to  him  on  this  occasion,  and  preserved  him  from  the 
danger  into  which  he  might  otherwise  have  fallen.  He  could 
not  be  persuaded  to  act :  the  fair  Fanny  gave  up  the  attempt 
in  despair.  "Yet  stay  with  us,"  said  she,  tenderly,  "and 
share  my  poor  earnings." 

Godolphin  started;  and  in  the  wonderful  contradictions  of 
the  proud  human  heart,  this  generous  offer  from  the  poor 
actress  gave  him  a  distaste,  a  displeasure,  that  almost  recon- 
ciled him  to  parting  from  her.  It  seemed  to  open  to  him  at 
once  the  equivocal  mode  of  life  he  had  entered  upon.  "  No, 
Eanny,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "I  am  here  because  I  resolved 
to  be  independent;  I  cannot,  therefore,  choose  dependence." 

"Miss  Millinger  is  wanted  instantly  for  rehearsal,"  said  the 
little  girl  who  acted  fairies  and  old  women,  putting  her  head 
suddenly  into  the  room. 

"  Bless  me !  "  cried  Fanny,  starting  up ;  "  is  it  so  late?  Well, 
I  must  go  now.     Good-by !    look  in  upon  us, —  do!  " 

But  Godolphin,  moody  and  thoughtful,  walked  into  the 
street;  and  lo!  the  first  thing  that  greeted  his  eyes  was  a 
handbill  on  the  wall,  describing  his  own  person,  and  offering 
twenty  guineas  reward  for  his  detention.  "  Let  him  return  to 
his  afflicted  parent,"  was  the  conclusion  of  the  bill,  "and  all 
shall  be  forgiven." 

Godolphin  crept  back  to  his  apartment;  wrote  a  long,  affec- 
tionate letter  to  Fanny;  enclosed  her  his  watch,  as  the  only 
keepsake  in  his  power;  gave  her  his  address  at  Saville's;  and 
then,  towards  dusk,  once  more  sallied  forth,  and  took  a  place 


20  GODOLPHIN. 

in  the  mail  for  London.  He  had  no  money  for  his  passage, 
but  his  appearance  was  such  that  the  coachman  readily  trusted 
him;  and  the  next  morning  at  daybreak  he  was  under  Saville's 
roof. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

PERCY    GODOLPHIN    THE    GUEST    OF    SAVILLE.  HE    ENTERS    THE 

LIFE-GUARDS    AND    BECOMES    THE    FASHION. 

"And  so,"  said  Saville,  laughing,  "you  really  gave  them 
the  slip:  excellent!  But  I  envy  you  your  adventures  with 
the  player  folk.  'Gad!  if  I  were  some  years  younger,  I 
would  join  them  myself;  I  should  act  Sir  Pertinax  Macsyco- 
phant  famously;  I  have  a  touch  of  the  mime  in  me.  Well! 
but  what  do  you  propose  to  do, —  live  with  me,  eh?  " 

"Why,  I  think  that  might  be  the  best,  and  certainly  it 
would  be  the  pleasantest,  mode  of  passing  my  life.     But  —  " 

"But  what?" 

"Why,  I  can  scarcely  quarter  myself  on  your  courtesy;  I 
should  soon  grow  discontented.  So  I  shall  write  to  my  father, 
whom  I,  kindly  and  consideratel}^,  by  the  way,  informed  of 

my  safety  the  very  first  day  of  my  arrival  at  B .     I  told 

him  to  direct  his  letters  to  your  house;  but  I  regret  to  find 
that  the  handbill  which  so  frightened  me  from  my  propriety 
is  the  only  notice  he  has  deigned  to  take  of  my  whereabout. 
I  shall  write  to  him  therefore  again,  begging  him  to  let  me 
enter  the  army.  It  is  not  a  profession  I  much  fancy;  but 
what  then?    I  shall  be  my  own  master." 

"Very  well  said!"  answered  Saville;  "and  here  I  hope  I 
can  serve  you.  If  your  father  will  pay  the  lawful  sum  for  a 
commission  in  the  Guards,  why,  I  think  I  have  interest  to  get 
you  in  for  that  sura  alone, — no  trifling  favour." 

Godolphin  was  enchanted  at  this  proposal,  and  instantly 
wrote  to  his  father,  urging  it  strongly  upon  him;  Saville,  in  a 


GODOLPHIN.  21 

separate  epistle,  seconded  the  motion.  "  You  see,"  wrote  the 
latter, —  "you  see,  my  dear  sir,  that  your  son  is  a  wild,  reso- 
lute scapegrace.  You  can  do  nothing  with  him  by  schools 
and  coercion:  put  him  to  discipline  in  the  king's  service,  and 
condemn  him  to  live  on  his  pay.  It  is  a  cheap  mode,  after 
all,  of  providing  for  a  reprobate;  and  as  he  will  have  the  good 
fortune  to  enter  the  army  at  so  early  an  age,  by  the  time  he  is 
thirty,  he  may  be  a  colonel  on  full  pay.  Seriously,  this  is  the 
best  thing  you  can  do  with  him, —  unless  you  have  a  living  in 
your  family." 

The  old  gentleman  was  much  discomposed  by  these  letters, 
and  by  his  son's  previous  elopement.  He  could  not,  however, 
but  foresee  that  if  he  resisted  the  boy's  wishes,  he  was  likely 
to  have  a  troublesome  time  of  it.  Scrape  after  scrape,  diffi- 
culty following  difficulty,  might  ensue,  all  costing  both  anx- 
iety and  money.  The  present  offer  furnished  him  with  a  fair 
excuse  for  ridding  himself,  for  a  long  time  to  come,  of  further 
provision  for  his  offspring;  and  now  growing  daily  more  and 
more  attached  to  the  indolent  routine  of  solitary  economies  in 
which  he  moved,  he  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  deliver 
himself  from  future  interruption,  and  surrender  his  whole 
soul  to  his  favourite  occupation. 

At  length,  after  a  fortnight's  delay  and  meditation,  he 
wrote  shortly  to  Saville  and  his  son,  saying,  after  much  re- 
proach to  the  latter,  that  if  the  commission  could  really  be 
purchased  at  the  sum  specified  he  was  willing  to  make  a  sac- 
rifice, for  which  he  must  pinch  himself,  and  conclude  the 
business.  This  touched  the  son,  but  Saville  laughed  him  out 
of  the  twinge  of  good  feeling ;  and  very  shortly  afterwards, 

Percy  Godolphin  was  gazetted  as  a  cornet  in  the Life- 

Guards. 

The  life  of  a  soldier,  in  peace,  is  indolent  enough.  Heaven 
knows !  Percy  liked  the  new  uniforms  and  the  new  horses  — 
all  of  which  were  bought  on  credit.  He  liked  his  new  com- 
panions; he  liked  balls;  he  liked  flirting;  he  did  not  dislike 
Hyde  Park  from  four  o'clock  till  six;  and  he  was  not  very 
much  bored  by  drills  and  parade.  It  was  much  to  his  credit 
in  the  world  that  he  was  the  protege  of  a  man  who  had  so 


22  GODOLPHIN, 

great  a  character  for  profligacy  and  gambling  as  Augustus 
Saville;  and  under  such  auspices  he  found  himself  launched 
at  once  into  the  full  tide  of  "good  society." 

Young,  romantic,  high-spirited,  with  the  classic  features  of 
an  Autinous,  and  a  very  pretty  knack  of  complimenting  "and 
writing  verses,  Percy  Godolphin  soon  became,  while  yet  more 
fit  in  years  for  the  nursery  than  the  world,  "  the  curled  dar- 
ling "  of  that  wide  class  of  high-born  women  who  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  hear  love  made  to  them,  and  who,  all  artifice 
themselves,  think  the  love  sweetest  which  springs  from  the 
most  natural  source.  They  like  boyhood  when  it  is  not  bash- 
ful; and  from  sixteen  to  twenty,  a  Juan  need  scarcely  go  to 
Seville  to  find  a  Julia. 

But  love  was  not  the  worst  danger  that  menaced  the  intoxi- 
cated boy.  Saville,  the  most  seductive  of  tutors,— Saville 
who,  in  his  wit,  his  ho7i  ton,  his  control  over  the  great  world, 
seemed  as  a  god  to  all  less  elevated  and  less  aspiring,—  Saville 
was  Godolphin's  constant  companion;  and  Saville  was  worse 
than  a  profligate,—  he  was  a  gambler!  One  would  think  that 
gaming  was  the  last  vice  that  could  fascinate  the  young :  its 
avarice,  its  grasping,  its  hideous  selfishness,  its  cold,  calcu- 
lating meanness,  would,  one  might  imagine,  scare  away  all 
who  have  yet  other  and  softer  deities  to  worship.  But,  in 
fact,  the  fault  of  youth  is  that  it  can  rarely  resist  whatever  is 
the  Mode.  Gaming,  in  all  countries,  is  the  vice  of  an  aris- 
tocracy. The  young  find  it  already  established  in  the  best 
circles ;  they  are  enticed  by  the  habit  of  others,  and  ruined 
when  the  habit  becomes  their  own. 

"You  look  feverish,  Percy,"  said  Saville,  as  he  met  his 
pupil  in  the  Park.  "I  don't  wonder  at  it;  you  lost  infernally 
last  night." 

"More  than  I  can  pay,"  replied  Percy,  with  a  quivering 

lip. 

"  No !  you  shall  pay  it  to-morrow,  for  you  shall  go  shares 
with  me  to-night.  Observe,"  continued  Saville,  lowering  his 
voice,  "I  nevei'  loseJ' 

"  How  never  ?  " 

"Never,  unless  by  design.    I  play  at  no  game  where  chance 


GODOLPHIX.  23 

only  presides.  Whist  is  my  favourite  game :  it  is  not  popu- 
lar; I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  take  up  with  other  games, —  I  am 
forced  to  do  it;  but  even  at  rouge-et-noir  I  carry  about  with 
me  the  rules  of  whist.     I  calculate,  I  remember." 

"But  hazard?" 

"I  never  play  at  that,"  said  Saville,  solemnly.  "It  is  the 
devil's  game;  it  defies  skill.  Forsake  hazard,  and  let  me 
teach  you  ecarte;   it  is  coming  into  fashion." 

Saville  took  great  pains  with  Godolphin;  and  Godolphin, 
who  was  by  nature  of  a  contemplative,  not  hasty  mood,  was 
no  superficial  disciple.  As  his  biographer,  I  grieve  to  confess 
that  he  became,  though  a  punctiliously  honest,  a  wise  and 
fortunate  gamester;  and  thus  he  eked  out  betimes  the  slender 
profits  of  a  subaltern's  pa3^ 

This  was  the  first  great  deterioration  in  Percy's  mind, —  a 
mind  which  ought  to  have  made  him  a  very  different  being 
from  what  he  became,  but  which  no  vice,  no  evil  example, 
could  ever  entirely  pervert. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SAVILLE   EXCUSED    FOR   HAVING  HUMAX  AFFECTIONS. — GODOL- 
PHIX   SEES    OXE    WHOM    HE    XEVER    SEES    AGAIX.  THE    XEW 

ACTRESS. 

Saville  was  deemed  the  consummate  man  of  the  world, — 
wise  and  heartless.  How  came  he  to  take  such  gratuitous 
pains  with  the  boy  Godolphin?  In  the  first  place,  Saville 
had  no  legitimate  children;  Godolphin  was  his  relation:  in 
the  second  place,  it  may  be  observed,  that  hackneyed  and 
sated  men  of  the  world  are  fond  of  the  young,  in  whom 
they  recognize  something  —  a  better  something  —  belonging 
to  themselves.  In  Godolphin's  gentleness  and  courage,  Sa- 
ville thought  he  saw  the  mirror  of  his  own  crusted  urbanity 


24  GODOLPHIX. 

and  scheming  perseverance;  in  Godolphin's  fine  imagination 
and  subtle  intellect  he  beheld  his  own  cunning  and  hypocrisy. 
The  boy's  popularity  flattered  him;  the  boy's  conversation 
amused.  Xo  man  is  so  heartless  but  that  he  is  capable  of 
strong  likings,  when  they  do  not  put  him  much  out  of  his 
way;  it  was  this  sort  of  liking  that  Saville  had  for  Godol- 
phin.  Besides,  there  was  yet  another  reason  for  attachment, 
which  might  at  first  seem  too  delicate  to  actuate  the  refined 
voluptuary;  but  examined  closely,  the  delicacy  vanished. 
Saville  had  loved,  at  least  had  offered  his  hand  to,  Godol- 
phin's mother  (she  was  supposed  an  heiress!).  He  thought 
he  had  just  missed  being  Godolphin's  father;  his  vanity  made 
him  like  to  show  the  boy  what  a  much  better  father  he  would 
have  been  than  the  one  that  Providence  had  given  him.  His 
resentment,  too,  against  the  accepted  suitor,  made  him  love  to 
exercise  a  little  spiteful  revenge  against  Godolphin's  father; 
he  was  glad  to  show  that  the  son  preferred  where  the  mother 
rejected.  All  these  motives  combined  made  Saville  take,  as 
it  were,  to  the  young  Percy ;  and  being  rich,  and  habitually 
profuse,  though  prudent,  and  a  shrewd  speculator  withal,  the 
pecuniary  part  of  his  kindness  cost  him  no  pain.  But  Godol- 
phin,  who  was  not  ostentatious,  did  not  trust  himself  largely 
to  the  capricious  fount  of  the  worldling's  generosity.  For- 
tune smiled  on  her  boyish  votary;  and  during  the  short  time 
he  was  obliged  to  cultivate  her  favours,  showered  on  him  at 
least  a  sufficiency  for  support,  or  even  for  display. 

Crowded  with  fine  people,  and  blazing  with  light,  were  the 

rooms  of  the  Countess  of  B ,  as,  flushed  from  a  late  dinner 

at  Saville's,  young  Godolphin  made  his  appearance  in  the 
scene.  He  was  not  of  those  numerous  gentlemen,  the  stock- 
flowers  of  the  parterre,  who  stick  themselves  up  against 
walls  in  the  panoply  of  neckclothed  silence.  He  came  not  to 
balls  from  the  vulgar  motive  of  being  seen  there  in  the  most 
conspicuous  situation, —  a  motive  so  apparent  among  the  stiff 
exquisites  of  England.  He  came  to  amuse  himself;  and  if  he 
found  no  one  capable  of  amusing  him,  he  saw  no  necessity  in 
staying.  He  was  always  seen,  therefore,  conversing  or  danc- 
ing, or  listening  to  music  —  or  he  was  not  seen  at  all. 


GOUOLPIIIX.  25 

In  exchanging  a  few  words  with  a  Colonel  D ,  a  noted 

rou^  and  gamester,  he  observed,  gazing  on  him  very  intently 

—  and  as  Percy  thought,  very  rudely  —  an  old  gentleman  in 
a  dress  of  the  last  century.  Turn  where  he  would,  Godol- 
phin  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  gaze ;  so  at  length  he  met  it 
with  a  look  of  equal  scrutiny  and  courage.  The  old  gentle- 
man slowly  approached.  "Percy  Godolphin,  I  think?"  said 
he. 

"That  is  viij  name,  sir,"  replied  Percy.     "Yours  —  " 
"N"o  matter!     Yet  stay!  you  shall  know  it.     I  am  Henry 
Johnstone, —  old  Harry  Johnstone.     You  have  heard  of  him? 

—  your  father's  first  cousin.  Well,  I  grieve,  young  sir,  to 
find  that  you  associate  with  that  rascal  Saville.  —  ^ay,  never 
interrupt  me,  sir!  — I  grieve  to  find  that  you,  thus  young, 
thus  unguarded,  are  left  to  be  ruined  in  heart  and  corrupted 
in  nature  by  any  one  who  will  take  the  trouble !  Yet  I  like 
your  countenance !  I  like  your  countenance !  —  it  is  open,  yet 
thoughtful;  frank,  and  yet  it  has  something  of  melancholy. 
You  have  not  Charles's  coloured  hair;  but  you  are  much 
younger, —  much.  I  am  glad  I  have  seen  you;  I  came  here 
on  purpose;  good-night!  "  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
the  old  man  disaj)peared. 

Godolphin,  recovering  from  his  surprise,  recollected  that 
he  had  often  heard  his  father  speak  of  a  rich  and  eccentric 
relation  named  Johnstone.  This  singular  interview  made  a 
strong  but  momentary  impression  on  him.  He  intended  to 
seek  out  the  old  man's  residence;  but  one  thing  or  another 
drove  away  the  fulfilment  of  the  intention,  and  in  this  world 
the  relations  never  met  again. 

Percy,  now  musingly  gliding  through  the  crowd,  sank  into 
a  seat  beside  a  lady  of  forty-five,  who  sometimes  amused  her- 
self in  making  love  to  him  —  because  there  could  be  no  harm 
in  such  a  mere  boy!  And  presently  afterwards,  a  Lord 
George  Somebody  sauntering  up  asked  the  lady  if  he  had  not 
seen  her  at  the  play  on  the  previous  night. 

"Oh,  yes!  we  went  to  see  the  new  actress.  How  pretty  she 
is!  so  unaffected  too!  how  well  she  sings!  " 

"Pretty   well  —  er!"    replied    Lord    George,    passing   his 


26  GODOLPHIN. 

hand  through  his  hair.  "  Very  nice  girl  —  er !  —  good  ankles. 
Devilish  hot  —  er,  is  it  not  —  er  —  er?  What  a  bore  this  is, 
eh!  Ah,  Godolphin!  don't  forget  Wattier's  —  er!"  and  his 
lordship  er\l  himself  off. 

"What  actress  is  this?" 

"Oh,  a  very  good  one  indeed!  —  came  out  in  'The  Belle's 
Stratagem.'  We  are  going  to  see  her  to-morrow;  will  you 
dine  with  us  early,  and  be  our  cavalier?  " 

"  Nothing  will  please  me  more !  Your  ladyship  has  dropped 
your  handkerchief." 

"Thank  you!  "  said  the  lady,  bending  till  her  hair  touched 
Godolphin's  cheek,  and  gently  pressing  the  hand  that  was 
extended  to  her.  It  was  a  wonder  that  Godolphin  never 
became  a  coxcomb. 

He  dined  at  Wattier's  the  next  day  according  to  appoint- 
ment; he  went  to  the  play;  and  at  the  moment  his  eye  first 
turned  to  the  stage,  a  universal  burst  of  applause  indicated 
the  entrance  of  the  new  actress^ —  Fanny  Millinger! 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

godolphin's    passion    for   the   stage.  —  THE   DIFFERENCE 
IT    ENGENDERED    IN    HIS    HABITS    OF    LIFE. 

Now  this  event  produced  a  great  influence  over  Godolphin's 
habits, —  and  I  suppose,  therefore,  I  may  add,  over  his  char- 
acter.    He  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  the  lively  actress. 

"  What  a  change !  "  cried  both. 

"The  strolling  player  risen  into  celebrity!  " 

"And  the  runaway  boy  polished  into  fashion!  " 

"You  are  handsomer  than  ever,  Fanny." 

"I  return  the  compliment,"  replied  Fanny,  with  a 
courtesy. 


GODOLPHIX.  27 

And  now  Godolphin  became  a  constant  attendant  at  tlie 
theatre.  Tliis  led  him  into  a  mode  of  life  quite  different 
from  that  which  he  had  lately  cultivated. 

There  are  in  London  t^o  sets  of  idle  men:  one  set,  the 
butterflies  of  balls,  the  loungers  of  the  regular  walks  of  so- 
ciety, diners  out,  the  "old  familiar  faces,"  seen  everywhere, 
known  to  every  one;  the  other  set,  a  more  wild,  irregular, 
careless  race,  who  go  little  into  parties,  and  vote  balls  a 
nuisance,  who  live  in  clubs,  frequent  theatres,  drive  about 
late  o'  nights  in  mysterious-looking  vehicles,  and  enjoy  a 
vast  acquaintance  among  the  Aspasias  of  pleasure.  These 
are  the  men  who  are  the  critics  of  theatricals;  black-neck- 
clothed  and  well-booted,  they  sit  in  their  boxes  and  decide 
on  the  ankles  of  a  dancer  or  the  voice  of  a  singer.  They 
have  a  smattering  of  literature,  and  use  a  great  deal  of 
French  in  their  conversation;  they  have  something  of  ro- 
mance in  their  composition,  and  have  been  known  to  marry 
for  love.  In  short,  there  is  in  their  whole  nature  a  more  rov- 
ing, liberal.  Continental  character  of  dissipation  than  belongs 
to  the  cold,  tame,  dull,  prim,  hedge-clipped  indolence  of  more 
national  exquisitism.  Into  this  set,  out  of  the  other  set,  fell 
young  Godolphin;  and  oh!  the  merry  mornings  at  actresses' 
houses;  the  jovial  suppers  after  the  play;  the  buoyancy,  the 
brilliancy,  the  esprit,  with  which  the  hours,  from  midnight  to 
cockcrow,  were  often  pelted  with  rose-leaves  and  drowned  in 
Ehenish. 

By  degrees,  however,  as  Godolphin  warmed  into  his  attend- 
ance at  the  playhouses,  the  fine  intellectual  something  that 
lay  yet  undestroyed  at  his  heart  stirred  up  emotions  which 
he  felt  his  more  vulgar  associates  were  unfitted  to  share. 

There  is  that  in  theatrical  representation  which  perpetually 
awakens  whatever  romance  belongs  to  our  character.  The 
magic  lights,  the  pomp  of  scene,  the  palace,  the  camp,  the 
forest,  the  midnight  wold,  the  moonlight  reflected  on  the 
water,  the  melody  of  the  tragic  rhythm,  the  grace  of  the  comic 
wit,  the  strange  art  that  gives  such  meaning  to  the  poet's 
lightest  word;  the  fair,  false,  exciting  life  that  is  detailed 
before  us,  crowding  into  some  three  little  hours  all  that  our 


28  GODOLPHIN. 

most  busy  ambition  could  desire  —  love,  enterprise,  war, 
glory;  the  kindling  exaggeration  of  the  sentiments  which 
belono-  to  the  stage  like  our  own  in  our  boldest  moments, — 
all  these  appeals  to  our  finer  senses  are  not  made  in  vain. 
Our  taste  for  castle-building  and  visions  deepens  upon  us; 
and  we  chew  a  mental  opium  which  stagnates  all  the  other 
faculties,  but  wakens  that  of  the  ideal. 

Godolphin  was  peculiarly  fascinated  by  the  stage ;  he  loved 
to  steal  away  from  his  companions,  and,  alone  and  un- 
heeded, to  feast  his  mind  on  the  unreal  stream  of  existence 
that  mirrored  images  so  beautiful.  And  oh!  while  yet  we 
are  young;  while  yet  the  dew  lingers  on  the  green  leaf  of 
spring;  while  all  the  brighter,  the  more  enterprising  part  of 
the  future  is  to  come;  while  we  know  not  whether  the  true 
life  may  not  be  visionary  and  excited  as  the  false,  —  how  deep 
and  rich  a  transport  is  it  to  see,  to  feel,  to  hear  Shakspeare's 
conceptions  made  actual,  though  all  imperfectly,  and  only  for 
an  hour!  Sweet  Arden!  are  we  in  thy  forest, — thy  "shadowy 
groves  and  unfrequented  glens"  ?  Rosalind,  Jaques,  Orlando, 
have  you  indeed  a  being  upon  earth?  Ah,  this  is  true  en- 
chantment! And  when  we  turn  back  to  life,  we  turn  from 
the  colours  which  the  Claude  glass  breathes  over  a  winter's 
landscape  to  the  nakedness  of  the  landscape  itself  I 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  LEGACY.  A  NEW  DEFORMITY  IN  SAVILLE.  THE  NA- 
TURE OF  WORLDLY  LIAISONS.  GODOLPHIN  LEAVES  ENG- 
LAND. 

But  then  it  is  not  always  a  sustainer  of  the  stage  delusion 
to  be  enamoured  of  an  actress :  it  takes  us  too  much  behind 
the  scenes.  Godolphin  felt  this  so  strongly  that  he  liked 
those  plays  least  in  which  Fanny  performed.  Off  the  stage 
her  character  had  so  little  romance  that  he  could  not  deceive 


GODOLPHIN.  29 

himself  into  the  romance  of  her  character  before  the  lamps. 
Luckily,  however,  Fanny  did  not  attempt  Shakspeare.  She 
was  inimitable  in  vaudeville,  in  farce,  and  in  the  lighter 
comedy;  but  she  had  prudently  abandoned  tragedy  in  desert- 
ing the  barn.  She  was  a  girl  of  much  talent  and  quickness, 
and  discovered  exactly  the  paths  in  which  her  vanity  could 
walk  without  being  wounded.  And  there  was  a  simplicity,  a 
frankness,  about  her  manner,  that  made  her  a  most  agreeable 
companion. 

The  attachment  between  her  and  Godolphin  was  not  very 
violent;  it  was  a  silken  tie,  which  opportunity  could  knit  and 
snap  a  hundred  times  over  without  doing  much  wrong  to  the 
hearts  it  so  lightly  united.  Over  Godolphin  the  attachment 
itself  had  no  influence,  while  the  effects  of  the  attachment  had 
an  influence  so  great. 

One  night,  after  an  absence  from  town  of  two  or  three  days, 
Godolphin  returned  home  from  the  theatre,  and  found  among 
the  letters  waiting  his  arrival  one  from  his  father.  It  was 
edged  with  black;  the  seal,  too,  was  black.  Godolphin's 
heart  misgave  him:  tremblingly  he  opened  it,  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

Dear  Percy,  —  I  have  news  for  you,  which  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  should  call  good  or  bad.  On  the  one  hand,  your  cousin,  that  old 
oddity,  Harry  Johnstone,  is  dead,  and  has  left  you,  out  of  his  immense 
fortune,  the  poor  sum  of  £20,000.  But  mark  !  on  condition  that  you 
leave  the  Guards,  and  either  reside  with  me,  or  at  least  leave  London, 
till  your  majority  is  attained.  If  you  refuse  these  conditions  you  lose 
the  legacy.  It  is  rather  strange  that  this  curious  character  should  take 
such  pains  with  your  morals,  and  yet  not  leave  me  a  single  shilling. 
But  justice  is  out  of  fashion  nowadays;  your  showy  virtues  only  are 
the  rage.  I  beg,  if  you  choose  to  come  down  here,  that  you  will  get  me 
twelve  yards  of  house-flannel ;  I  inclose  a  pattern  of  the  quality. 
Snug,  in  Oxford  Street,  near  Tottenham  Court  Road,  is  my  man.  It  is. 
certainly  a  handsome  thing  in  old  Johnstone ;  but  so  odd  to  omit  me. 
How  did  you  get  acquainted  with  him?  The  £20,000  will,  however,  do 
much  for  the  poor  property.     Pray  take  care  of  it,  Percy,  —  pray  do. 

I  have  had  a  touch  of  the  gout,  for  the  first  time.  I  have  been  too 
luxurious;  by  proper  abstinence,  I  trust  to  bring  it  down.  Compli- 
ments to  that  smooth  rogue,  Saville. 

Your  affectionate,  A.    G. 


30  GODOLPIIIN. 

P.  S. —  Discharged  Old  Sally  for  Hirting  with  the  butcher's  boy, — 
flirtations  of  that  sort  make  meat  weigh  much  heavier.  Bess  is  my  only 
she-helpmate  now,  besides  the  old  creature  who  shows  the  ruins  :  so 
much  the  better.  What  an  eccentric  creature  that  Johnstone  was  !  I 
hate  eccentric  people. 

The  letter  fell  from  Percy's  hands.  And  this,  then,  -was 
the  issue  of  his  single  interview  with  the  poor  old  man!  It 
was  events  like  these,  wayward  and  strange  (events  which 
checkered  his  whole  life),  that,  secretly  to  himself,  tinged 
Godolphin's  character  with  superstition.  He  afterwards  deal^ 
con  amove  with  fatalities  and  influences. 

You  may  be  sure  that  he  did  not  sleep  much  that  night. 
Early  the  next  morning  he  sought  Saville,  and  imparted  to 
him  the  intelligence  he  had  received. 

"  Droll  enough ! "  said  Saville,  languidly,  and  more  than  a 
little  displeased  at  this  generosity  to  Godolphin  from  another; 
for,  like  all  small-hearted  persons,  he  was  jealous;  "droll 
enough !  Hem !  and  you  never  knew  him  but  once,  and  then 
he  abused  me!  I  wonder  at  that;  I  was  very  obliging  to  his 
vulgar  son." 

"What!  he  had  a  son,  then?  '' 

"Some  two-legged  creature  of  that  sort,  raw  and  bony, 
dropped  into  London,  like  a  ptarmigan,  wild,  and  scared  out 
of  his  wits.  Old  Johnstone  was  in  the  country,  taking  care 
of  his  wife,  who  had  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs  ever  since  she 
had  been  married, —  caught  a  violent  —  husband  —  the  first 
day  of  wedlock!  The  boy,  sole  son  and  heir,  came  up  to 
town  at  the  age  of  discretion;  got  introduced  to  me;  I  pat- 
ronized him;  brought  him  into  a  decent  degree  of  fashion; 
played  a  few  games  at  cards  with  him;  won  some  money; 
would  not  win  any  more;  advised  him  to  leave  off, —  too 
young  to  play;  neglected  my  advice;  went  on,  and,  d — n  the 
fellow!  if  he  did  not  cut  his  throat  one  morning;  and  the 
father,  to  my  astonishment,  laid  the  blame  upon  me ! " 

Godolphin  stood  appalled  in  speechless  disgust.  He  never 
loved  Saville  from  that  hour. 

"In  fact,"  resumed  Saville,  carelessly,  "he  had  lost  very 
considerably.     His  father  was  a  stern,  hard  man,  and  the 


GODOLPHIN.  31 

poor  boy  was  frightened  at  the  thought  of  his  displeasure. 
I  suppose  Monsieur  Papa  imagined  me  a  sort  of  moral  ogre,, 
eating  up  all  the  little  youths  that  fall  in  my  way,  since  he 
leaves  you  £  20,000  on  condition  that  you  take  care  of  your- 
self and  shun  the  castle  I  live  in!  Well,  well!  't  is  all  very 
flattering!     And  where  will  you  go?    To  Spain?  " 

This  story  affected  Percy  sensibly.  He  regretted  deeply 
that  he  had  not  sought  out  the  bereaved  father,  and  been  of 
some  comfort  to  his  later  hours.  He  appreciated  all  that 
warmth  of  sympathy,  that  delicacy  of  heart,  which  had  made 
the  old  man  compassionate  his  young  relation's  unfriended 
lot,  and  couple  his  gift  with  a  condition,  likely  perhaps  to 
limit  Percy's  desires  to  the  independence  thus  bestowed,  and 
certain  to  remove  his  more  tender  years  from  a  scene  of  con- 
stant contagion.  Thus  melancholy  and  thoughtful,  Godol- 
phin  repaired  to  the  house  of  the  now  famous,  the  now 
admired  Miss  Millinger. 

Fanny  received  the  good  news  of  his  fortune  with  a  smile, 
and  the  bad  news  of  his  departure  from  England  with  a  tear. 
There  are  some  attachments,  of  which  we  so  easily  sound  the 
depth  that  the  one  never  thinks  of  exacting  from  the  other 
the  sacrifices  that  seem  inevitable  to  more  earnest  affections. 
Panny  never  dreamed  of  leaving  her  theatrical  career,  and 
accompanying  Godolphin;  Godolphin  never  dreamed  of  de- 
manding it.  These  are  the  connections  of  the  great  world : 
my  good  reader,  learn  the  great  world  as  you  look  at  them ! 

All  was  soon  settled.  Godolphin  was  easily  disembarrassed 
of  his  commission.  Six  hundred  a  year  from  his  fortune  was 
allowed  him  during  his  minority.  He  insisted  on  sharing 
this  allowance  with  his  father;  the  moiety  left  to  himself  was 
quite  sufficient  for  all  that  a  man  so  young  could  require.  At 
the  age  of  little  more  than  seventeen,  but  with  a  character 
which  premature  independence  had  half  formed,  and  also  half 
enervated,  the  young  Godolphin  saw  the  shores  of  England 
recede  before  him,  and  felt  himself  alone  in  the  universe, — 
the  lord  of  his  own  fate. 


32  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTEE   X. 

THE    EDUCATION    OF    COXSTAXCE's    MIND. 

Meanwhile,  Constance  Vernon  grew  up  in  womanhood  and 
beauty.  All  around  her  contributed  to  feed  that  stern  re- 
membrance which  her  father's  dying  words  had  bequeathed. 
Naturally  proud,  quick,  susceptible,  she  felt  slights,  often 
merely  incidental,  with  a  deep  and  brooding  resentment. 
The  forlorn  and  dependent  girl  could  not,  indeed,  fail  to 
meet  with  many  bitter  proofs  that  her  situation  was  not  for- 
gotten by  a  world  in  which  prosperity  and  station  are  the 
cardinal  virtues.  Many  a  loud  whisper,  many  an  intentional 
"aside,"  reached  her  haughty  ear  and  coloured  her  pale  cheek. 
Such  accidents  increased  her  early-formed  asperity  of  thought, 
chilled  the  gushing  flood  of  her  young  affections,  and  sharp- 
ened with  a  relentless  edge  her  bitter  and  caustic  hatred  to  a 
society  she  deemed  at  once  insolent  and  worthless.  To  a 
taste  intuitively  fine  and  noble,  the  essential  vulgarities  — 
the  fierceness  to-day,  the  cringing  to-morrow ;  the  veneration 
for  power ;  the  indifference  to  virtue,  —  which  characterized 
the  framers  and  rulers  of  "society  "  could  not  but  bring  con- 
tempt as  well  as  anger;  and  amidst  the  brilliant  circles  to 
which  so  many  aspirers  looked  up  with  hopeless  ambition, 
Constance  moved  only  to  ridicule,  to  loathe,  to  despise. 

So  strong,  so  constantly  nourished,  was  this  sentiment  of 
contempt,  that  it  lasted  with  equal  bitterness  when  Con- 
stance afterwards  became  the  queen  and  presider  over  that 
great  world  in  which  she  now  shone, —  to  dazzle,  but  not  to 
rule.  What  at  first  might  have  seemed  an  exaggerated  and 
insane  prayer  on  the  part  of  her  father  grew,  as  her  experi- 
ence ripened,  a  natural  and  laudable  command.  She  was 
thrown  entirely  with  that  party  amongst  whom  were  his 
early  friends  and  his  late  deserters.     She  resolved  to  humble 


GODOLPHIX.  33 

the  crested  arrogance  around  her,  as  much  from  her  own  de- 
sire as  from  the  wish  to  obey  and  avenge  her  father.  From 
contempt  for  rank  rose  naturally  the  ambition  of  rank.  The 
young  beauty  resolved  to  banish  love  from  her  heart;  to  de- 
vote herself  to  one  aim  and  object;  to  win  title  and  station, 
that  she  might  be  able  to  give  power  and  permanence  to  her 
disdain  of  those  qualities  in  others;  and  in  the  secrecy  of 
night  she  repeated  the  vow  which  had  consoled  her  father's 
death-bed,  and  solemnly  resolved  to  crush  love  within  her 
heart  and  marry  solely  for  station  and  for  power. 

As  the  daughter  of  so  celebrated  a  politician,  it  was  natural 
that  Constance  should  take  interest  in  politics.  She  lent  to 
every  discussion  of  state  events  an  eager  and  thirsty  ear.  She 
embraced  with  masculine  ardour  such  sentiments  as  were  then 
considered  the  extreme  of  liberality ;  and  she  looked  on  that 
career  which  society  limits  to  vian,  as  the  noblest,  the  loftiest 
in  the  world.  She  regretted  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  pre- 
vented from  personally  carrying  into  effect  the  sentiments  she 
passionately  espoused.  Meanwhile,  she  did  not  neglect,  nor 
suffer  to  rust,  the  bright  weapon  of  a  wit  which  embodied  at 
times  all  the  biting  energies  of  her  contempt.  To  insolence 
she  retorted  sarcasm ;  and,  early  able  to  see  that  society,  like 
virtue,  must  be  trampled  upon  in  order  to  yield  forth  its  in- 
cense, she  rose  into  respect  by  the  hauteur  of  her  manner,  the 
bluntness  of  her  satire,  the  independence  of  her  mind,  far 
more  than  by  her  various  accomplishments  and  her  unrivalled 
beauty. 

Of  Lady  Erpingham  she  had  nothing  to  complain:  kind, 
easy,  and  characterless,  her  protectress  sometimes  wounded 
her  by  carelessness,  but  never  through  design;  on  the  con- 
trary, the  countess  at  once  loved  and  admired  her,  and  was  as 
anxious  that  \iGr  protegee  should  form  a  brilliant  alliance  as  if 
she  had  been  her  own  daughter.  Constance,  therefore,  loved 
Lady  Erpingham  with  sincere  and  earnest  warmth,  and  en- 
deavoured to  forget  all  the  commonplaces  and  littlenesses 
which  made  up  the  mind  of  her  protectress,  and  which,  other- 
wise, would  have  been  precisely  of  that  nature  to  which  one 
like  Constance  would  have  been  the  least  indulgent. 

3 


34  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

CONVERSATION    BETWEEN    LADY    ERPINGHAM  AND    CONSTANCE. 
FURTHER    PARTICULARS    OF    GODOLPHIn's    FAMILY,    ETC. 

Lady  Erpingham  was  a  widow ;  her  jointure,  for  she  had 
been  an  heiress  and  a  duke's  daughter,  was  large;  and  the 
noblest  mansion  of  all  the  various  seats  possessed  by  the 
wealthy  and  powerful  house  of  Erpingham  had  been  allotted 
by  her  late  lord  for  her  widowed  residence.  Thither  she  went 
punctually  on  the  first  of  every  August,  and  quitted  it  punctu- 
ally on  the  eighth  of  every  January. 

It  was  some  years  after  the  date  of  Godolphin's  departure 
from  England,  and  the  summer  following  the  spring  in  which 
Constance  had  been  "brought  out;  "  and  after  a  debut  of  such 
splendour  that  at  this  day  (many  years  subsequent  to  that 
period)  the  sensation  she  created  is  not  only  a  matter  of  re- 
membrance but  of  conversation,  Constance,  despite  the  tri- 
umph of  her  vanity,  was  not  displeased  to  seek  some  refuge, 
even  from  admiration,  among  the  shades  of  Wendover  Castle. 

"When,"  said  she  one  morning,  as  she  was  walking  with 
Lady  Erpingham  upon  a  terrace  beneath  the  windows  of  the 
castle,  which  overlooked  the  country  for  miles, —  "when  will 
you  go  with  me,  dear  Lady  Erpingham,  to  see  those  ruins  of 
which  I  have  heard  so  much  and  so  often,  and  which  I  have 
never  been  able  to  persuade  you  to  visit?  Look!  the  day  is 
so  clear  that  we  can  see  their  outline  now  —  there,  to  the 
right  of  that  church !  —  they  cannot  be  so  very  far  from 
Wendover." 

"Godolphin  Priory  is  about  twelve  miles  off,"  said  Lady 
Erpingham;  "but  it  may  seem  nearer,  for  it  is  situated  on 
the  highest  spot  of  the  county.  Poor  Arthur  Godolphin !  he 
is  lately  dead!  "     Lady  Erpingham  sighed. 

"I  never  heard  you  speak  of  him  before." 


GODOLPIIIN.  35 

"There  might  be  a  reason  for  my  silence,  Constance.  He 
was  the  person,  of  all  whom  I  ever  saw,  who  appeared  to  me 
when  I  was  at  your  age  the  most  fascinating.  Not,  Con- 
stance, that  I  was  in  love  with  him,  or  that  he  gave  me  any 
reason  to  become  so  through  gratitude  for  any  affection  on 
his  part.  It  was  a  girl's  fancy,  idle  and  short-lived, — noth- 
ing more ! " 

"And  the  young  Godolphin, —  the  boy  who,  at  so  early  an 
age,  has  made  himself  known  for  his  eccentric  life  abroad?  " 

"Is  his  son;  the  present  owner  of  those  ruins,  and,  I  fear, 
of  little  more,  unless  it  be  the  remains  of  a  legacy  received 
from  a  relation." 

"Was  the  father  extravagant,  then?  " 

"  Not  he !  But  his  father  had  exceeded  a  patrimony  greatly 
involved,  and  greatly  reduced  from  its  ancient  importance. 
All  the  lands  we  see  yonder  —  those  villages,  those  woods  — 
once  belonged  to  the  Godolphins.  They  were  the  most  an- 
cient and  the  most  powerful  family  in  this  part  of  England; 
but  the  estates  dwindled  away  with  each  successive  genera- 
tion, and  when  Arthur  Godolphin,  mi/  Godolphin,  succeeded 
to  the  property,  nothing  was  left  for  him  but  the  choice  of 
three  evils, —  a  profession,  obscurity,  or  a  wealthy  marriage. 
My  father,  who  had  long  destined  me  for  Lord  Erpingham, 
insinuated  that  it  was  in  me  that  Mr.  Godolphin  wished  to 
find  the  resource  I  have  last  mentioned,  and  that  in  such  re- 
source was  my  only  attraction  in  his  eyes.  I  have  some  rea- 
son to  believe  he  proposed  to  the  duke ;  but  he  was  silent  to 
me,  from  whom,  girl  as  I  was,  he  might  have  been  less  certain 
of  refusal." 

"What  did  he  at  last?" 

"  Married  a  lady  who  was  supposed  to  be  an  heiress ;  but  he 
had  scarcely  enjoyed  her  fortune  a  year  before  it  became  the 
subject  of  a  lawsuit.  He  lost  the  cause  and  the  dowry ;  and, 
what  was  worse,  the  expenses  of  litigation,  and  the  sums  he 
was  obliged  to  refund,  reduced  him  to  what,  for  a  man  of  his 
rank,  might  be  considered  absolute  poverty.  He  was  thor- 
ouglily  chagrined  and  soured  by  this  event;  retired  to  those 
ruins,  or  rather  to  the  small  cottage  that  adjoins  them,  and 


36  GODOLPHIK 

there  lived  to  the  day  of  his  death,  shunning  society,  and  cer- 
tainly not  exceeding  his  income." 

"I  understand  you:  he  became  parsimonious." 

"To  the  excess  which  his  neighbours  called  miserly." 

"And  his  wife?" 

"Poor  woman!  she  was  a  mere  fine  lady,  and  died,  I  be- 
lieve, of  the  same  vexation  which  nipped,  not  the  life,  but  the 
heart  of  her  husband." 

"Had  they  only  one  son?  " 

"Only  the  present  owner:  Percy,  I  think,  — yes,  Percy;  it 
was  his  mother's  surname, —  Percy  Godolphin." 

"  And  how  came  this  poor  boy  to  be  thrown  so  early  on  the 
world?    Did  he  quarrel  with  Mr.  Godolphin?  " 

"I  believe  not;  but  when  Percy  was  about  sixteen,  he  left 
the  obscure  school  at  which  he  was  educated,  and  resided  for 
some  little  time  with  a  relation,  Augustus  Saville.  He  stayed 
with  him  in  London  for  about  a  year,  and  went  everywhere 
with  him,  though  so  mere  a  boy.  His  manners  were,  I  well 
remember,  assured  and  formed.  A  relation  left  him  some 
moderate  legacy,  and  afterwards  he  went  abroad  alone." 

"But  the  ruins?  The  late  Mr.  Godolphin,  notwithstanding 
his  reserve,  did  not  object  to  indulging  the  curiosity  of  his 
neighbours?" 

"No;  he  was  proud  of  the  interest  the  ruins  of  his  heredi- 
tary mansion  so  generally  excited, —  proud  of  their  celebrity 
in  print-shops  and  in  tours ;  but  he  himself  was  never  seen. 
The  cottage  in  which  he  lived,  though  it  adjoins  the  ruins, 
was,  of  course,  sacred  from  intrusion,  and  is  so  walled  in, 
that  that  great  delight  of  English  visitors  at  show-places, — 
peeping  in  at  windows, —  was  utterly  forbidden.  However 
that  be,  during  Mr.  Godolphin's  life  I  never  had  courage  to 
visit  what,  to  me,  would  have  been  a  melancholy  scene;  now, 
the  pain  would  be  somewhat  less ;  and  since  you  wish  it,  sup- 
pose we  drive  over  and  visit  the  ruins  to-morrow?  It  is  the 
regular  day  for  seeing  them,  by  the  by." 

"  Not,  dear  Lady  Erpingham,  if  it  give  you  the  least  —  " 

"My  sweet  girl,"  interrupted  Lady  Erpingham,  when  a 
servant  approached  to  announce  visitors  at  the  castle. 


GODOLPHIN.  37 

"Will  you  go  into  the  saloon,  Constance?"  said  the  elder 
lady,  as,  thinking  still  of  love  and  Arthur  Godolphin,  she 
took  her  way  to  her  dressing-room  to  renovate  her  rouge. 

It  would  have  been  a  pretty  amusement  to  one  of  the  lesser 
devils,  if,  during  the  early  romance  of  Lady  Erpingham's 
feelings  towards  Arthur  Godolphin,  he  had  foretold  her  the 
hour  when  she  would  tell  how  Arthur  Godolphin  died  a 
miser, —  just  five  minutes  before  she  repaired  to  the  toilette 
to  decorate  the  cheek  of  age  for  the  heedless  eyes  of  a  com- 
mon acquaintance.  'T  is  the  world's  way  !  For  my  part,  I 
would  undertake  to  find  a  better  world  in  that  rookery  opposite 
my  windows. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DESCRIPTION    OF    GODOLPHIn's    HOUSE.  —  THE    FIRST    INTER- 
VIEW.   ITS    EFFECT    ON    CONSTANCE. 

"But,"  asked  Constance,  as,  the  next  day.  Lady  Erping- 
ham  and  herself  were  performing  the  appointed  pilgrimage  to 
the  ruins  of  Godolphin  Priory,  "if  the  late  Mr.  Godolphin, 
as  he  grew  in  years,  acquired  a  turn  of  mind  so  penurious, 
was  he  not  enabled  to  leave  his  son  some  addition  to  the  pied 
de  terre  we  are  about  to  visit?  " 

"He  must  certainly  have  left  some  ready  money,"  answered 
Lady  Erpingham.  "  But  is  it,  after  all,  likely  that  so  young 
a  man  as  Percy  Godolphin  could  have  lived  in  the  manner  he 
has  done  without  incurring  debts?  It  is  most  probable  that 
he  had  some  recourse  to  those  persons  so  willing  to  encourage 
the  young  and  extravagant,  and  that  repayment  to  them  will 
more  than  swallow  up  any  savings  his  father  might  have 
amassed." 

"  True  enough !  "  said  Constance ;  and  the  conversation 
glided  into  remarks  on  avaricious  fathers  and  prodigal  sons. 


38  GODOLPHIN. 

Constance  was  witty  on  the  subject,  and  Lady  Erpingham 
lauglied  herself  into  excellent  humour. 

It  was  considerably  past  noon  when  they  arrived  at  the 
ruins. 

The  carriage  stopj)ed  before  a  small  inn,  at  the  entrance  of 
a  dismantled  park;  and  taking  advantage  of  the  beauty  of  the 
day,  Lady  Erpingham  and  Constance  walked  slowly  towards 
the  remains  of  the  Priory. 

The  scene,  as  they  approached,  was  wild  and  picturesque 
in  the  extreme.  A  wide  and  glassy  lake  lay  stretched  be- 
neath them;  on  the  opposite  side  stood  the  ruins.  The  large 
oriel  window,  the  Gothic  arch,  the  broken  yet  still  majestic 
column,  all  embrowned  and  mossed  with  age,  were  still 
spared,  and  now  mirrored  themselves  in  the  waveless  and 
silent  tide.  Fragments  of  stone  lay  around,  for  some  con- 
siderable distance,  and  the  whole  was  backed  by  hills,  cov- 
ered with  gloomy  and  thick  woods  of  pine  and  fir.  To  the 
left,  they  saw  the  stream  which  fed  the  lake  stealing  away 
through  grassy  banks,  overgrown  with  the  willow  and  pollard 
oak;  and  there,  from  one  or  two  cottages,  only  caught  in 
glimpses,  thin  wreaths  of  smoke  rose  in  spires  against  the 
clear  sky.  To  the  right,  the  ground  was  broken  into  a  thou- 
sand glens  and  hollows;  the  deer-loved  fern,  the  golden 
broom,  were  scattered  about  profusely;  and  here  and  there 
were  dense  groves  of  pollards;  or,  at  very  rare  intervals, 
some  single  tree  decaying  (for  all  round  bore  the  seal  of 
vassalage  to  Time),  but  mighty,  and  greenl}^  venerable  in  its 
decay. 

As  they  passed  over  a  bridge  that,  on  either  side  of  the 
stream,  emerged,  as  it  were,  from  a  thick  copse,  they  caught 
a  view  of  the  small  abode  that  adjoined  the  ruins.  It  seemed 
covered  entirely  with  ivy;  and  so  far  from  diminishing, 
tended  rather  to  increase  the  romantic  and  imposing  effect  of 
the  crumbling  pile  from  which  it  grew. 

They  opened  a  little  gate  at  the  other  extremity  of  the 
bridge,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more,  they  stood  at  the  entrance 
to  the  Priory. 

It  was  an  oak  door,  studded  with  nails.     The  jessamine 


GODOLPHIX.  39 

grew  upon  either  side;  and,  to  descend  to  a  commonplace 
matter,  they  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  the  bell  among  the 
leaves  in  which  it  was  imbedded.  When  they  had  found  and 
touched  it,  its  clear  and  lively  sound  rang  out  in  that  still 
and  lovely  though  desolate  spot  with  an  effect  startling  and 
impressive  from  its  contrast.  There  is  something  very  fairy- 
like in  the  cheerful  voice  of  a  bell  sounding  among  the  wilder 
scenes  of  nature,  particularly  where  Time  advances  his  claim 
to  the  sovereignty  of  the  landscape ;  for  the  cheerfulness  is  a 
little  ghostly,  and  might  serve  well  enough  for  a  tocsin  to  the 
elfish  hordes  whom  our  footsteps  may  be  supposed  to  disturb. 

An  old  woman,  in  the  neat  peasant  dress  of  our  country, 
when,  taking  a  little  from  the  fashion  of  the  last  century  (the 
cap  and  the  kerchief),  it  assumes  no  ungraceful  costume,  re- 
plied to  their  summons.  She  was  the  solitary  cicerone  of  the 
place.  She  had  lived  there,  a  lone  and  childless  widow,  for 
thirty  years ;  and  of  all  the  persons  I  have  ever  seen  would 
furnish  forth  the  best  heroine  to  one  of  those  pictures  of 
homely  life  which  Wordsworth  has  dignified  wdth  the  patri- 
archal tenderness  of  his  genius. 

They  wound  a  narrow  passage,  and  came  to  the  ruins  of  the 
great  hall.  Its  gothic  arches  still  sprang  lightly  upward  on 
either  side;  and  opening  a  large  stone  box  that  stood  in  a 
recess,  the  old  woman  showed  them  the  gloves  and  the  helmet 
and  the  tattered  banners,  which  had  belonged  to  that  Godol- 
phin  who  had  fought  side  by  side  with  Sidney,  when  he, 
whose  life  —  as  the  noblest  of  British  lyrists  hath  somewhere 
said  —  was  "poetry  put  into  action,"^  received  his  death- 
wound  in  the  field  of  Zutphen. 

Thence  they  ascended  by  the  dilapidated  and  crumbling 
staircase  to  a  small  room,  in  which  the  visitors  were  always 
expected  to  rest  themselves,  and  enjoy  the  scene  in  the  garden 
below.  A  large  chasm  yawned  where  the  casement  once  was ; 
and  round  this  aperture  the  ivy  wreathed  itself  in  fantastic 
luxuriance.  A  sort  of  ladder,  suspended  from  this  chasm 
to  the  ground,  afforded  a  convenience  for  those  who  were 
tempted  to  a  short  excursion  by  the  view  without. 

1  Campbell. 


40  GODOLPHIN. 

And  the  vievr  luas  tempting!  A  smooth  green  lawn,  sur- 
rounded by  shrubs  and  flowers,  was  ornamented  in  the  centre 
by  a  fountain.  The  waters  were,  it  is  true,  dried  up;  but 
the  basin,  and  the  "Triton  with  his  wreathed  shell,"  still 
remained.  A  little  to  the  right  was  an  old  monkish  sun-dial; 
and  through  the  green  vista  you  caught  the  glimpse  of  one  of 
those  gray,  grotesque  statues  with  which  the  taste  of  Eliza- 
beth's day  shamed  the  classic  chisel. 

There  was  something  quiet  and  venerable  about  the  whole 
place ;  and  when  the  old  woman  said  to  Constance,  "  Would 
you  not  like,  my  lady,  to  walk  down  and  look  at  the  sun-dial 
and  the  fountain?"  Constance  felt  she  required  nothing  more 
to  yield  to  her  inclination.  Lady  Erpingham,  less  adventu- 
rous, remained  in  the  ruined  chamber;  and  the  old  woman, 
naturally  enough,  honoured  the  elder  lady  with  her  company. 

Constance,  therefore,  descended  the  rude  steps  alone.  As 
she  paused  by  the  fountain,  an  indescribable  and  delicious 
feeling  of  repose  stole  over  a  mind  that  seldom  experienced 
any  sentiment  so  natural  or  so  soft.  The  hour,  the  stillness, 
the  scene, —  all  conspired  to  lull  the  heart  into  that  dreaming 
and  half -unconscious  revery  in  which  poets  would  suppose  the 
hermits  of  elder  times  to  have  wasted  a  life,  indolent,  and 
yet  scarcely,  after  all,  unwise.  "Methinks,"  she  inly  solilo- 
quized, "while  I  look  around,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  give  up  my 
objects  of  life;  renounce  my  hopes;  forget  to  be  artificial 
and  ambitious;  live  in  these  ruins,  and"  (whispered  the 
spirit  within),  "loved  and  loving,  fulfil  the  ordinary  doom 
of  woman." 

Indulging  a  mood  which  the  proud  and  restless  Constance, 
who  despised  love  as  the  poorest  of  human  weaknesses,  though 
easily  susceptible  to  all  other  species  of  romance,  had  scarcely 
ever  known  before,  she  wandered  away  from  the  lawn  into 
one  of  the  alleys  cut  amidst  the  grove  around.  Caught  by 
the  murmur  of  an  unseen  brook,  she  tracked  it  through  the 
trees,  as  its  sound  grew  louder  and  louder  on  her  ear,  till  at 
length  it  stole  upon  her  sight.  The  sun,  only  winning 
through  the  trees  at  intervals,  played  capriciously  upon  the 
cold  and  dark  waters  as  they  glided  on,  and  gave  to  her,  as 


GODOLPHIX.  41 

the  same  effect  has  done  to  a  thousand  poets,  ample  matter  for 
a  simile  or  a  moral. 

She  approached  the  brook,  and  came  unawares  upon  the 
figure  of  a  young  man,  leaning  against  a  stunted  tree  that 
overhung  the  Twiters,  and  occupied  with  the  idle  amusement 
of  dropping  pebbles  in  the  stream.  She  saw  only  his  profile; 
but  that  view  is,  in  a  fine  countenance,  almost  always  the 
most  striking  and  impressive,  and  it  was  eminently  so  in  the 
face  before  her.  The  stranger,  who  was  scarcely  removed 
from  boyhood,  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning.  He  seemed 
slight,  and  small  of  stature.  A  travelling  cap  of  sables  con- 
trasted, not  hid,  light  brown  hair  of  singular  richness  and 
beauty.  His  features  were  of  that  pure  and  severe  Greek  of 
which  the  only  fault  is  that  in  the  very  perfection  of  the 
chiselling  of  the  features  there  seems  something  hard  and 
stern.  The  complexion  was  pale,  even  to  wanness;  and  the 
whole  cast  and  contour  of  the  head  were  full  of  intellect,  and 
betokening  that  absorption  of  mind  which  cannot  be  marked 
in  any  one  without  exciting  a  certain  vague  curiosity  and 
interest. 

So  dark  and  wondrous  are  the  workings  of  our  nature,  that 
there  are  scarcely  any  of  us,  however  light  and  unthinking, 
who  would  not  be  arrested  by  the  countenance  of  one  in  deep 
reflection ;  who  would  not  pause,  and  long  to  pierce  into  the 
mysteries  that  were  agitating  that  world,  most  illimitable  by 
nature,  but  often  most  narrowed  by  custom, —  the  world 
within. 

And  this  interest,  powerful  as  it  is,  spelled  and  arrested 
Constance  at  once.  She  remained  for  a  minute  gazing  on  the 
countenance  of  the  young  stranger,  and  then  she  —  the  most 
self-possessed  and  stately  of  human  creatures  —  blushing 
deeply,  and  confused  though  unseen,  turned  lightly  away  and 
stopped  not  on  her  road  till  she  regained  the  old  chamber  and 
Lady  Erpingham. 

The  old  woman  was  descanting  upon  the  merits  of  the  late 
lord  of  Godolphin  Priory. 

"  For  though  they  called  him  close,  and  so  forth,  my  lady, 
yet  he  was  generous  to  others ;  it  was  only  himself  he  pinched. 


42  GODOLPHIN". 

But,  to  be  sure,  the  present  squire  won't  take  after  him 
there." 

"Has  Mr.  Percy  Godolphin  been  here  lately?  "  asked  Lady 
Erpingham. 

"He  is  at  the  cottage  now,  my  lady,"  replied  the  .old 
woman.     "He  came  two  days  ago." 

"Is  he  like  his  father?" 

"  Oh,  not  near  so  line-looking  a  gentleman !  much  smaller, 
and  quite  pale-like.  He  seems  sickly :  them  foreign  parts  do 
nobody  no  good.  He  was  as  fine  a  lad  at  sixteen  years  old  as 
ever  I  seed;  but  now  he  is  not  like  the  same  thing." 

So  then  it  was  evidently  Percy  Godolphin  whom  Constance 
had  seen  by  the  brook, —  the  owner  of  a  home  without  coffers, 
and  estates  without  a  rent-roll;  the  Percy  Godolphin,  of 
whom,  before  he  had  attained  the  age  when  others  have  left 
the  college,  or  even  the  school,  every  one  had  learned  to 
speak, —  some  favourably,  all  with  eagerness.  Constance  felt 
a  vague  interest  respecting  him  spring  up  in  her  mind.  She 
checked  it,  for  it  was  a  sin  in  her  eye  to  think  with  interest 
on  a  man  neither  rich  nor  powerful ;  and  as  she  quitted  the 
ruins  with  Lady  Erpingham,  she  communicated  to  the  latter 
her  adventure.  She  was,  however,  disingenuous,  for  though 
Godolphin's  countenance  was  exactly  of  that  cast  which  Con- 
stance most  admired,  she  described  him  just  as  the  old 
woman  had  done;  and  Lady  Erpingham  figured  to  herself, 
from  the  description,  a  little  yellow  man,  with  white  hair 
and  a  turned-up  nose.  0  Truth!  what  a  hard  path  is  thine! 
Does  any  keep  it  for  three  inches  together  in  the  commonest 
trifle?  —  and  yet  two  sides  of  my  library  are  filled  with 
histories ! 


GODOLPIIIX.  43 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

A    BALL     AXXOUNCED. — GODOLPHIx's     VISIT    TO    WEXDOVER 
CASTLE. — HIS    MAXNEKS    AXD    COXVERSATIOX. 

Lady  Erpixgham  (besides  her  daughter,  Lady  Eleanor, 
married  to  Mr.  Clare,  a  county  member,  of  large  fortune) 
was  blessed  with  one  son. 

The  present  earl  had  been  for  the  last  two  years  abroad. 
He  had  never,  since  his  accession  to  his  title,  visited  Wend- 
over  Castle;  and  Lady  Erpingham  one  morning  experienced 
the  delight  of  receiving  a  letter  from  him,  dated  Dover,  and 
signifying  his  intention  of  paying  her  a  visit.  In  honour  of 
this  event.  Lady  Erpingham  resolved  to  give  a  grand  ball. 
Cards  were  issued  to  all  the  families  in  the  county;  and, 
among  others,  to  Mr.  Godolphin. 

On  the  third  day  after  this  invitation  had  been  sent  to  the 
person  I  have  last  named,  as  Lady  Erpingham  and  Constance 
were  alone  in  the  saloon,  Mr.  Percy  Godolphin  was  an- 
nounced. Constance  blushed  as  she  looked  up,  and  Lady 
Erpingham  was  struck  by  the  nobleness  of  his  address,  and 
the  perfect  self-possession  of  his  manner.  And  yet  nothing 
could  be  so  different  as  was  his  deportment  from  that  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  admire,  from  that  manifested  by 
the  exquisites  of  the  day.  The  calm,  the  nonclialance,  the 
artificial  smile  of  languor,  the  evenness,  so  insipid,  yet  so 
irreproachable,  of  English  manners  when  considered  most 
polished, — all  this  was  the  reverse  of  Godolphin's  address 
and  air.  In  short,  in  all  he  said  or  did  there  was  something 
foreign,  something  unfamiliar.  He  was  abrupt  and  enthusi- 
astic in  conversation,  and  used  gestures  in  speaking.  His 
countenance  lighted  up  at  every  word  that  broke  from  him  on 
the  graver  subjects  of  discussion.  You  felt,  indeed,  with 
him  that  you  were  with  a  man  of  genius, —  a  wayward  and  a 


44  GODOLPHIN. 

spoiled  man,  who  had  acquired  his  habits  in  solitude,  but  his 
graces  in  the  world. 

They  conversed  about  the  ruins  of  the  Priory,  and  Con- 
stance expressed  her  admiration  of  their  romantic  and  pictu- 
resque beauty.  "Ah,"  said  he,  smiling,  but  with  a  slight 
blush,  in  which  Constance  detected  something  of  pain,  "I 
heard  of  your  visit  to  my  poor  heaps  of  stone.  My  father 
took  great  pleasure  in  the  notice  they  attracted.  When  a 
proud  man  has  not  riches  to  be  proud  of,  he  grows  proud  of 
the  signs  of  his  poverty  itself.  This  was  the  case  with  my 
poor  father.  Had  he  been  rich,  the  ruins  would  not  have 
existed, —  he  would  have  rebuilt  the  old  mansion.  As  he 
was  poor,  he  valued  himself  on  their  existence,  and  fancied 
magnificence  in  every  handful  of  moss.  But  all  life  is  de- 
lusion; all  pride,  all  vanity,  all  pomp,  are  equally  deceit. 
Like  the  Spanish  hidalgo,  we  put  on  spectacles  when  we  eat 
our  cherries,  in  order  that  they  may  seem  ten  times  as  big  as 
they  are ! " 

Constance  smiled;  and  Lady  Erpingham,  who  had  more 
kindness  than  delicacy,  continued  her  praises  of  the  Priory 
and  the  scenery  round  it. 

"The  old  park,"  said  she,  "with  its  wood  and  water,  is  so 
beautiful !  It  wants  nothing  but  a  few  deer,  just  tame  enough 
to  come  near  the  ruins,  and  wild  enough  to  start  away  as  you 
approach." 

"Now  you  would  borrow  an  attraction  from  wealth,"  said 
Godolphin,  who,  unlike  English  persons  in  general,  seemed 
to  love  alluding  to  his  poverty.  "  It  is  not  for  the  owner  of 
a  ruined  Priory  to  consult  the  aristocratic  enchantments  of 
that  costly  luxury,  the  Picturesque.  Alas!  I  have  not  even 
wherewithal  to  feed  a  few  solitary  partridges ;  and  I  hear  that 
if  I  go  beyond  the  green  turf,  once  a  park,  I  shall  be  warned 
off  forthwith,  and  my  very  qualification  disputed." 

"Are  you  fond  of  shooting?  "  said  Lady  Erpingham. 

"  I  fancy  I  should  be ;  but  I  have  never  enjoyed  the  sport  in 
England." 

"Do  pray  come,  then,"  said  Lady  Erpingham,  kindly,  "and 
spend  your  first  week  in  September  here.     Let  me  see :  the 


GODOLPHIN.  45 

first  of  the  month  will  be  next  Thursday;  dine  with  us  on 
Wednesda3\  We  have  keepers  and  dogs  here  enough,  thanks 
to  Eobert;  so  you  need  only  bring  your  gun." 

"You  are  very  kind,  dear  Lady  Erpingham,"  said  Godol- 
phin,  warmly;  "I  accept  your  invitation  at  once." 

"Your  father  was  a  very  old  friend  of  mine,"  said  the  lady 
with  a  sigh. 

"He  was  an  old  admirer,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  bow. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CONVERSATION    BETWEEN    GODOLPHIN    AND    CONSTANCE.  —  THE 
COUNTRY    LIFE    AND    THE    TOWN    LIFE. 

And  Godolphin  came  on  the  appointed  Wednesday.  He 
was  animated  that  day  even  to  brilliancy.  Lady  Erpingham 
thought  him  the  most  charming  of  men;  and  even  Constance 
forgot  that  he  was  no  match  for  herself.  Gifted  and  culti- 
vated as  she  was,  it  was  not  without  delight  that  she  listened 
to  his  glowing  descriptions  of  scenery,  and  to  his  playful,  yet 
somewhat  melancholy  strain  of  irony  upon  men  and  their  pur- 
suits. The  peculiar  features  of  her  mind  made  her,  indeed, 
like  the  latter  more  than  she  could  appreciate  the  former;  for 
in  her  nature  there  was  more  bitterness  than  sentiment.  Still, 
his  rich  language  and  fluent  periods,  even  in  description, 
touched  her  ear  and  fancy,  though  they  sank  not  to  her  heart; 
and  she  yielded  insensibly  to  the  spells  she  would  almost  have 
despised  in  another. 

The  next  day,  Constance,  who  was  no  very  early  riser, 
tempted  by  the  beauty  of  the  noon,  strolled  into  the  gardens. 
She  was  surprised  to  hear  Godolphin's  voice  behind  her:  she 
turned  round  and  he  joined  her. 

"I  thought  you  were  on  your  shooting  expedition?  " 

"  I  have  been  shooting,  and  I  am  returned.     I  was  out  by 


46  GODOLPHIN. 

daybreak,  and  I  came  back  at  noon  in  the  hope  of  being  al- 
lowed to  join  you  in  your  ride  or  walk." 

Constance  smilingly  acknowledged  the  compliment;  and  as 
they  passed  up  the  straight  walks  of  the  old-fashioned  and 
stately  gardens,  Godolphin  turned  the  conversation  upon  the 
varieties  of  garden  scenery;  upon  the  poets  who  have  de- 
scribed those  varieties  best;  upon  that  difference  between  the 
town  life  and  the  country,  on  Avhich  the  brothers  of  the  min- 
strel craft  have,  in  all  ages,  so  glowingly  insisted.  In  this 
conversation,  certain  points  of  contrast  between  the  characters 
of  these  two  young  persons  might  be  observed. 

"I  confess  to  you,"  said  Godolphin,  "that  I  have  little  faith 
in  the  permanence  of  any  attachment  professed  for  the  country 
by  the  inhabitants  of  cities.  If  we  can  occupy  our  minds 
solely  with  the  objects  around  us,  if  the  brook  and  the  old 
tree,  and  the  golden  sunset  and  the  summer  night,  and  the 
animal  and  homely  life  that  we  survey, —  if  these  can  fill  our 
contemplation,  and  take  away  from  us  the  feverish  schemes 
of  the  future,  —  then  indeed  I  can  fully  understand  the  reality 
of  that  tranquil  and  happy  state  which  our  elder  poets  have 
described  as  incident  to  a  country  life.  But  if  we  carry  with 
us  to  the  shade  all  the  restless  and  perturbed  desires  of  the 
city;  if  we  only  employ  present  leisure  in  schemes  for  an 
agitated  future, —  then  it  is  in  vain  that  we  affect  the  hermit 
and  fly  to  the  retreat.  The  moment  the  novelty  of  green 
fields  is  over,  and  our  projects  are  formed,  we  wish  to  hurry 
to  the  city  to  execute  them.  We  have,  in  a  word,  made  our 
retirement  only  a  nursery  for  schemes  now  springing  up,  and 
requiring  to  be  transplanted." 

"  You  are  right, "  said  Constance,  quickly ;  "  and  Avho  would 
pass  life  as  if  it  were  a  dream?  It  seems  to  me  that  we  put 
retirement  to  the  right  use  when  we  make  it  only  subservient 
to  our  aims  in  the  world." 

"A  strange  doctrine  for  a  young  beauty,"  thought  Godol- 
phin, "whose  head  ought  to  be  full  of  groves  and  love.  — 
Then,"  said  he  aloud,  "I  must  rank  among  those  who  abuse 
the  purposes  of  retirement ;  for  I  have  hitherto  been  flattered 
to  think  that  I  enjoy  it  for  itself.     Despite  the  artificial  life 


GODOLPHIX.  47 

I  have  led,  everything  that  speaks  of  Nature  has  a  voice  that 
I  can  rarely  resist.  What  feelings  created  in  a  city  can  com- 
pare with  those  that  rise  so  gently  and  so  unbidden  within  us 
when  the  trees  and  the  waters  are  our  only  companions,  our 
only  sources  of  excitement  and  intoxication?  Is  not  contem- 
plation better  than  ambition?  " 

"Can  you  believe  it?"  said  Constance,  incredulously. 

"I  do." 

Constance  smiled;  and  there  would  have  been  contempt  in 
that  beautiful  smile,  had  not  Godolphin  interested  her  in 
spite  of  herself. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  FEELINGS  OF  COXSTAXCE  AND  GODOLPHIN^  TOWARDS  EACH 
OTHER.  THE  DISTINCTION  IN  THEIR  CHARACTERS.  RE- 
MARKS   ON    THE    EFFECTS    PRODUCED    BY    THE    WORLD    UPON 

GODOLPHIN.  THE  RIDE.  RURAL  DESCRIPTIONS. OMENS. 

THE    FIRST    INDISTINCT    CONFESSION. 

Every  day,  at  the  hour  in  which  Constance  was  visible, 
Godolphin  had  loaded  the  keeper,  and  had  returned  to  attend 
upon  her  movements.  They  walked  and  rode  together;  and 
in  the  evening,  Godolphin  hung  over  her  chair,  and  listened 
to  her  songs ;  for  though,  as  I  have  before  said,  she  had  but 
little  science  in  instrumental  music,  her  voice  was  rich  and 
soft  beyond  the  pathos  of  ordinary  singers. 

Lady  Erpingham  saw,  with  secret  delight,  what  she  be- 
lieved to  be  a  growing  attachment.  She  loved  Constance  for 
herself,  and  Godolphin  for  his  father's  memory.  She  thought 
again  and  again  what  a  charming  couple  they  would  make, — 
so  handsome,  so  gifted :  and  if  Prudence  whispered  also  —  so 
poor,  the  kind  countess  remembered  that  she  herself  had 
saved  from  her  ample  jointure  a  sum  which  she  had  always 
designed  as  a  dowry  for  Constance,  and  which,  should  Godol- 


48  GODOLPHIN. 

phin  be  the  bridegroom,  she  felt  she  shoukl  have  a  tenfold 
pleasure  in  bestowing.  With  this  fortune,  which  would  place 
them,  at  least,  in  independence,  she  united  in  her  kindly 
imagination  the  importance  which  she  imagined  Godolphin's 
talents  must  ultimately  acquire;  and  for  which,  in  her  aristo- 
cratic estimation,  she  conceived  the  senate  the  only  legitimate 
sphere.  She  said,  she  hinted,  nothing  to  Constance ;  but  she 
suffered  nature,  youth,  and  companionship  to  exercise  their 
sway. 

And  the  complexion  of  Godolphin's  feelings  for  Constance 
Vernon  did  indeed  resemble  love, —  was  love  itself,  though 
rather  love  in  its  romance  than  its  reality.  What  were  those 
of  Constance  for  him?  She  knew  not  herself  at  that  time. 
Had  she  been  of  a  character  one  shade  less  ambitious  or  less 
powerful,  they  would  have  been  love,  and  love  of  no  common 
character.  But  within  her  musing  and  self-possessed  and 
singularly  constituted  mind  there  was,  as  yet,  a  limit  to  every 
sentiment,  a  chain  to  the  wings  of  every  thought,  save  those 
of  one  order;  and  that  order  was  not  of  love.  There  was  a 
marked  difference,  in  all  respects,  between  the  characters  of 
the  two ;  and  it  was  singular  enough  that  that  of  the  woman 
was  the  less  romantic,  and  composed  of  the  simpler  materials. 

A  volume  of  Wordsworth's  most  exquisite  poetry  had  then 
just  appeared.  "Is  not  this  wonderful?"  said  Godolphin, 
reciting  some  of  those  lofty  but  refining  thoughts  which  char- 
acterize the  Pastor  of  modern  poets. 

Constance  shook  her  head. 

"What!  you  do  not  admire  it?  " 

"I  do  not  understand  it." 

"What  poetry  do  you  admire?  " 

"This." 

It  was  Pope's  translation  of  the  "Iliad." 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Godolphin,  a  little  vexed;  "we 
all  admire  this  in  its  way:  but  what  else?" 

Constance  pointed  to  a  passage  in  the  "  Palamon  and  Arcite  " 
of  Dryden. 

Godolphin  threw  down  his  Wordsworth.  "You  take  an 
ungenerous  advantage  of  me,"  said  he.     "Tell  me  something 


GODOLPHIN.  49 

you  admire,  which,  at  least,  I  may  have  the  privilege  of  dis- 
puting,—something  that  you  think  generally  neglected." 

"I  admire  few  things  that  are  generally  neglected,"  an- 
swered Constance,  with  her  bright  and  proud  smile.  "  Fame 
gives  its  stamp  to  all  metal  that  is  of  intrinsic  value." 

This  answer  was  quite  characteristic  of  Constance;  she 
worshipped  fame  far  more  than  the  genius  which  won  it. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Godolphin,  "let  us  see  7iow  if  we  can 
come  to  a  compromise  of  sentiment;  "  and  he  took  up  the 
"Comus"  of  Milton. 

No  one  read  poetry  so  beautifully :  his  voice  was  so  deep 
and  flexible ;  and  his  countenance  answered  so  well  to  every 
modulation  of  his  voice.  Constance  was  touched  by  the 
reader,  but  not  by  the  verse.  Godolphin  had  great  penetra- 
tion; he  perceived  it,  and  turned  to  the  speeches  of  Satan  in 
"Paradise  Lost."  The  noble  countenance  before  him  grew 
luminous  at  once;  the  lip  quivered,  the  eye  sparkled;  the 
enthusiasm  of  Godolphin  was  not  comparable  to  that  of  Con- 
stance. The  fact  was,  that  the  broad  and  common  emotions 
of  the  intellectual  character  struck  upon  the  right  key.  Cour- 
age, defiance,  ambition, —  these  she  comprehended  to  their 
fullest  extent;  but  the  rich  subtleties  of  thought  which  mark 
the  cold  and  bright  page  of  the  "Comus,"  the  noble  Platon- 
ism,  the  high  and  rare  love  for  what  is  abstractedly  good, — 
these  were  not  "sonorous  and  trumpet-speaking"  enough  for 
the  heart  of  one  meant  by  Nature  for  a  heroine  or  a  queen, 
not  a  poetess  or  a  philosopher. 

But  all  that  in  literature  was  delicate  and  half-seen  and 
abstruse  had  its  peculiar  charm  for  Godolphin.  Of  a  reflec- 
tive and  refining  mind,  he  had  early  learned  to  despise  the 
common  emotions  of  men :  glory  touched  him  not,  and  to  am- 
bition he  had  shut  his  heart.  Love,  with  him  —  even  though 
he  had  been  deemed,  nor  unjustly,  a  man  of  gallantry  and 
pleasure  —  love  was  not  compounded  of  the  ordinary  elements 
of  the  passions.  Full  of  dreams  and  refinements  and  intense 
abstractions,  it  was  a  love  that  seemed  not  homely  enough 
for  endurance,  and  of  too  rare  a  nature  to  hope  for  sympathy 
in  return. 

4 


50  GODOLPHIN. 

And  so  it  was  in  his  intercourse  with  Constance  both  were 
continually  disappointed.  "You  do  not  feel  this,"  said  Con- 
stance.    "She  cannot  understand  me,"  sighed  Godolphin. 

But  we  must  not  suj^pose  —  despite  his  refinements  and  his 
reveries  and  his  love  for  the  intellectual  and  the  pure  —  that 
Godoli^hin  was  of  a  stainless  character  or  mind.  He  was  one 
who,  naturally  full  of  decided  and  marked  qualities,  was,  by 
the  peculiar  elements  of  our  society,  rendered  a  doubtful, 
motley,  and  indistinct  character,  tinctured  by  the  frailties 
that  leave  us  in  a  wavering  state  between  vice  and  virtue. 
The  energies  that  had  marked  his  boyhood  were  dulled  and 
crippled  in  the  indolent  life  of  the  world.  His  wandering 
habits  for  the  last  few  years,  the  soft  and  poetical  existence 
of  the  South,  had  fed  his  natural  romance,  and  nourished 
that  passion  for  contemplation  which  the  intellectual  man  of 
pleasure  so  commonly  forms ;  for  pleasure  has  a  philosophy 
of  its  own, —  a  sad,  a  fanciful,  yet  deep  persuasion  of  the 
vanity  of  all  things,  a  craving  after  the  bright  ideal  — 

"The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star." 

Solomon's  thirst  for  pleasure  was  the  companion  of  his 
wisdom:  satiety  was  the  offspring  of  the  one,  discontent  of 
the  other.  But  this  philosophy,  though  seductive,  is  of  no 
wholesome  nor  useful  character;  it  is  the  philosophy  of  feel- 
ings, not  principles ;  of  the  heart,  not  head.  So  with  Godol- 
phin: he  was  too  refined  in  his  moralizing  to  cling  to  what 
was  moral.  The  simply  good  and  the  simply  bad  he  left  for 
us  plain  folks  to  discover.  He  was  unattracted  by  the  doc- 
trines of  right  and  wrong  which  serve  for  all  men;  but  he  had 
some  obscure  and  shadowy  standard  in  his  own  mind  by  which 
he  compared  the  actions  of  others.  He  had  imagination,  ge- 
nius, even  heart;  was  brilliant  always,  sometimes  profound; 
graceful  in  society,  yet  seldom  social;  a  lonely  man,  yet  a 
man  of  the  world;  generous  to  individuals,  selfish  to  the 
mass.     How  many  fine  qualities  worse  than  thrown  away ! 

Who  will  not  allow  that  he  has  met  many  such  men?  — 
and  who  will  not  follow  this  man  to  his  end? 

One  day  (it  was  the  last  of  Godolphin's  protracted  visit), 


GODOLPHIN.  61 

as  tlie  sun  was  waning  to  its  close,  and  the  time  was  unusu- 
ally soft  and  tranquil,  Constance  and  Godolphin  were  return- 
ing slowly  home  from  their  customary  ride.  They  passed  by 
a  small  inn,  bearing  the  common  sign  of  the  Chequers,  round 
which  a  crowd  of  peasants  were  assembled,  listening  to  the 
rude  music  which  a  wandering  Italian  boy  drew  from  his 
guitar.  The  scene  was  rustic  and  picturesque ;  and  as  Godol- 
phin reined  in  his  horse  and  gazed  on  the  group,  he  little 
dreamed  of  the  fierce  and  dark  emotions  with  which,  at  a  far 
distant  period,  he  was  destined  to  revisit  that  spot. 

"Our  peasants,"  said  he,  as  they  rode  on,  "require  some 
humanizing  relaxation  like  that  we  have  witnessed.  The 
music  and  the  morris-dance  have  gone  from  England;  and  in- 
stead of  providing,  as  formerly,  for  the  amusement  of  the 
grinded  labourer,  our  legislators  now  regard  with  the  most 
watchful  jealousy  his  most  distant  approach  to  festivity.  They 
cannot  bear  the  rustic  to  be  merry :  disorder  and  amusement 
are  words  for  the  same  offence." 

"I  doubt,"  said  the  earnest  Constance,  "whether  the  legis- 
lators are  not  right;  for  men  given  to  amusement  are  easily 
enslaved.     All  noble  thoughts  are  grave." 

Thus  talking,  they  passed  a  shallow  ford  in  the  stream. 
"We  are  not  far  from  the  Priory,"  said  Godolphin,  pointing 
to  its  ruins,  that  rose  grayly  in  the  evening  skies  from  the 
green  woods  around  it. 

Constance  sighed  involuntarily.  She  felt  pain  in  being 
reminded  of  the  slender  fortunes  of  her  companion.  Ascend- 
ing the  gentle  hill  that  swelled  from  the  stream,  she  now,  to 
turn  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  pointed  admiringly  to  the 
blue  course  of  the  waters,  as  they  wound  through  their  shagged 
banks.  And  deep,  dark,  rushing,  even  at  that  still  hour,  went 
the  stream  through  the  boughs  that  swept  over  its  surface. 
Here  and  there  the  banks  suddenly  shelved  down,  mingling 
with  the  waves;  then  abruptly  they  rose,  overspread  with 
thick  and  tangled  umbrage,  several  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  river. 

"How  strange  it  is,"  said  Godolphin,  "that  at  times  a  feel- 
ing comes  over  us,  as  we  gaze  upon  certain  places,  which 


52  GODOLPHIN. 

associates  the  scene  either  with  some  dim-remembered  and 
dream-like  images  of  the  Past,  or  with  a  prophetic  and  fear- 
ful omen  of  the  Future !  As  I  gaze  now  upon  this  spot  — 
those  banks,  that  whirling  river  —  it  seems  as  if  my  destiny 
claimed  a  mysterious  sympathy  with  the  scene:  when,  how, 
wherefore,  I  know  not,  guess  not;  only  this  shadowy  and 
chilling  sentiment  unaccountably  creeps  over  me.  Every 
one  has  known  a  similar  strange,  indistinct  feeling  at  certain 
times  and  places,  and  with  a  similar  inability  to  trace  the 
cause.  And  yet,  is  it  not  singular  that  in  poetry,  which  wears 
most  feelings  to  an  echo,  I  have  never  met  with  any  attempt 
to  describe  it?  " 

"Because  poetry,"  said  Constance,  "is,  after  all,  but  a 
hackneyed  imitation  of  the  most  common  thoughts,  giving 
them  merely  a  gloss  by  the  brilliancy  of  verse.  And  yet  how 
little  poets  know  !  They  imagine,  and  they  imitate, — behold 
all  their  secrets !  " 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Godolphin,  miTsingly;  "and 
I,  who  have  often  vainly  fancied  I  had  the  poetical  tempera- 
ment, have  been  so  chilled  and  sickened  by  the  characteristics 
of  the  tribe  that  I  have  checked  its  impulses  with  a  sort  of 
disdain;  and  thus  the  Ideal,  having  no  vent  in  me,  preys 
within,  creating  a  thousand  undefined  dreams  and  unwilling 
superstitions,  making  me  enamoured  of  the  Shadowy  and  Un- 
known, and  dissatisfying  me  with  the  petty  ambitions  of  the 
world." 

"  You  will  awake  hereafter, "  said  Constance,  earnestly. 

Godolphin  shook  his  head,  and  replied  not. 

Their  way  now  lay  along  a  green  lane  that  gradually  wound 
round  a  hill  commanding  a  view  of  great  richness  and  beauty. 
Cottages  and  spires  and  groves  gave  life  —  but  it  was  scat- 
tered and  remote  life  —  to  the  scene ;  and  the  broad  stream, 
whose  waves,  softened  in  the  distance,  did  not  seem  to  break 
the  even  surface  of  the  tide,  flowed  onward,  glowing  in  the 
sunlight,  till  it  was  lost  among  dark  and  luxuriant  woods. 

Both  once  more  arrested  their  horses  by  a  common  impulse, 
and  both  became  suddenly  silent  as  they  gazed.  Godolphin 
was  the  first  to  speak ;   it  brought  to  his  memory  a  scene  in 


GODOLPHIX.  53 

tliat  delicious  land,  whose  Southern  loveliness  Claude  has 
transfused  to  the  canvas,  and  De  Staiil  to  the  page.  With 
his  own  impassioned  and  earnest  language,  he  spoke  to  Con- 
stance of  that  scene  and  that  country.  Every  tree  before  him 
furnished  matter  for  his  illustration  or  his  contrast;  and  as 
she  heard  that  magic  voice,  and  speaking,  too,  of  a  country 
dedicated  to  love,  Constance  listened  with  glistening  eyes, 
and  a  cheek  which  he  —  consummate  master  of  the  secrets  of 
womanhood  —  perceived  was  eloquent  with  thoughts  which 
she  knew  not,  but  which  he  interpreted  to  the  letter. 

"And  in.  such  a  spot,"  said  he,  continuing,  and  fixing  his 
deep  and  animated  gaze  on  her, —  "in  such  a  spot  I  could 
have  stayed  forever  but  for  one  recollection,  one  feeling, —  I 
should  hace  been  too  much  alone!  In  a  wild  or  a  grand  or 
even  a  barren  country,  we  may  live  in  solitude,  and  find  fit 
food  for  thought;  but  not  in  one  so  soft,  so  subduing,  as 
that  which  I  saw  and  see.  Love  comes  over  us  then  in  spite 
of  ourselves;  and  I  feel  —  I  feel  now  —  "  his  voice  trembled 
as  he  spoke  —  "  that  any  secret  we  may  before  have  nursed, 
though  hitherto  unacknowledged,  makes  itself  at  length  a 
voice.  We  are  oppressed  with  the  desire  to  be  loved;  we 
long  for  the  courage  to  say  we  love." 

Never  before  had  Godolphin,  though  constantly  verging 
into  sentiment,  spoken  to  Constance  in  so  plain  a  language. 
Eye,  voice,  cheek, —  all  spoke.  She  felt  that  he  had  con- 
fessed he  loved  her !  And  was  she  not  happy  at  that  thought? 
She  was ;  it  was  her  happiest  moment.  But,  in  that  sort  of 
vague  and  indistinct  shrinking  from  the  subject  with  which 
a  woman  who  loves  hears  a  disclosure  of  love  from  him  on 
whose  lips  it  is  most  sweet,  she  muttered  some  confused  at- 
tempt to  change  the  subject,  and  quickened  her  horse's  pace. 
Godolphin  did  not  renew  the  topic  so  interesting  and  so  dan- 
gerous, only,  as  with  the  winding  of  the  road  the  landscape 
gradually  faded  from  their  view,  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  as 
if  to  himself, —  "How  long,  how  fondly,  shall  I  remember 
this  day !  " 


64  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

GODOLPHIn's    return    home.  —  HIS    SOLILOQUY,  LORD    ERP- 

INGHAm's    arrival  at  WENDOVER    castle,  THE  EARL    DE- 
SCRIBED.  HIS    ACCOUNT    OF    GODOLPHIN's    LIFE    AT    ROME. 

With  a  listless  step,  Godolphin  re-entered  the  threshold  of 
his  cottage-hoine.  He  passed  into  a  small  chamber,  which 
was  yet  the  largest  in  his  house.  The  poor  and  scanty  furni- 
ture scattered  around;  the  old,  tuneless,  broken  harpsichord; 
the  worn  and  tattered  carpet;  the  tenantless  birdcage  in  the 
recess  by  the  window;  the  book-shelves,  containing  some 
dozens  of  worthless  volumes;  the  sofa  of  the  last  century 
(when,  if  people  knew  comfort,  they  placed  it  not  in  loung- 
ing), small,  narrow,  highbacked,  hard,  and  knotted, —  these, 
just  as  his  father  had  left,  just  as  his  boyhood  had  seen,  them, 
greeted  him  with  a  comfortless  and  chill  though  familiar  wel- 
come. It  was  evening.  He  ordered  a  fire  and  lights;  and 
leaning  his  face  on  his  hand  as  he  contemplated  the  fitful  and 
dusky  outbreakings  of  the  flame  through  the  bars  of  the  nig- 
gard and  contracted  grate,  he  sat  himself  down  to  hold  com- 
mune with  his  heart. 

"So,  I  love  this  woman,"  said  he,  "do  I?  Have  I  not  de- 
ceived myself  ?  She  is  poor, —  no  connection;  she  has  noth- 
ing whereby  to  reinstate  my  house's  fortunes,  to  rebuild  this 
mansion,  or  repurchase  yonder  demesnes.  I  love  her!  /who 
have  known  the  value  of  her  sex  so  well,  that  I  have  said, 
again  and  again,  I  would  not  shackle  life  with  a  princess! 
Love  may  withstand  possession, —  true;  but  not  time.  In 
three  years  there  would  be  no  glory  in  the  face  of  Constance, 
and  I  should  be  — what?  My  fortunes,  broken  as  they  are, 
can  support  me  alone,  and  with  my  few  wants.  But  if  mar- 
ried! the  haughty  Constance  my  wife!  ISTay,  nay,  nay!  this 
must  not  be  thought  of!     I,  the  hero  of  Paris!  the  pupil  of 


GODOLPHIX.  55 

Saville!     I,  to  be  so  beguiled  as  even  to  dream  of  such  a 
madness! 

"  Yet  I  have  that  within  me  that  might  make  a  stir  in  the 
world;  I  might  rise.  Professions  are  open;  the  Diplomacy, 
the  House  of  Commons.  What!  Percy  Godolphin  be  ass 
enough  to  grow  ambitious !  to  toil,  to  fret,  to  slave,  to  answer 
fools  on  a  first  principle,  and  die  at  length  of  a  broken  heart 
or  a  lost  place!  Pooh,  pooh!  I,  who  despise  your  prime 
ministers,  can  scarcely  stoop  to  their  apprenticeship.  Life  is 
too  short  for  toil.  And  what  do  men  strive  for?  —  to  enjoy; 
but  why  not  enjoy  without  the  toil?  And  relinquish  Con- 
stance?    Ay,  it  is  but  one  woman  lost!" 

So  ended  the  soliloquy  of  a  man  scarcely  of  age.  The  world 
teaches  us  its  last  lessons  betimes;  but  then,  lest  we  should 
have  nothing  left  to  acquire  from  its  wisdom,  it  employs  the 
rest  of  our  life  in  unlearning  all  that  it  first  taught. 

Meanwhile,  the  time  approached  when  Lord  Erpingham 
was  to  arrive  at  Wendover  Castle;  and  at  length  came  the 
day  itself.  Naturally  anxious  to  enjoy  as  exclusively  as  pos- 
sible the  company  of  her  son  the  first  day  of  his  return  from 
so  long  an  absence,  Lady  Erpingham  had  asked  no  one  to 
meet  him.  The  earl's  heavy  travelling-carriage  at  length 
rolled  clattering  up  the  courtyard;  and  in  a  few  minutes  a 
tall  man,  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  borrowing  some  favourable 
effect  as  to  person  from  the  large  cloak  of  velvet  and  furs 
which  hung  round  him,  entered  the  room,  and  Lady  Erping- 
ham embraced  her  son.  The  kind  and  familiar  manner  with 
which  he  answered  her  inquiries  and  congratulations  was 
somewhat  changed  when  he  suddenly  perceived  Constance. 
Lord  Erpingham  was  a  cold  man,  and,  like  most  cold  men, 
ashamed  of  the  evidence  of  affection.  He  greeted  Constance 
very  quietly,  and  as  she  thought,  slightly;  but  his  eyes 
turned  to  her  far  more  often  than  any  friend  of  Lord  Erping- 
ham's  might  ever  have  remarked  those  large  round  hazel  eyes 
turn  to  any  one  before. 

When  the  earl  withdrew  to  adjust  his  toilet  for  dinner. 
Lady  Erpingham,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes,  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming to  Constance,  "Is  he  not  handsome?  What  a 
figure ! " 


56  GODOLPHIN. 

Constance  was  a  little  addicted  to  flattery  where  she  liked 
the  one  who  was  to  be  flattered,  and  she  assented  readily- 
enough  to  the  maternal  remark.  Hitherto,  however,  she  had 
not  observed  anything  more  in  Lord  Erpingham  than  his 
height  and  his  cloak;  as  he  re-entered  and  led  her  to  the 
dining-room  she  took  a  better,  though  still  but  a  casual, 
survey. 

Lord  Erpingham  was  that  sort  of  person  of  whom  vien  al- 
ways say,  "  What  a  prodigiously  fine  fellow !  "  He  was  above 
six  feet  high,  stout  in  proportion:  not,  indeed,  accurately 
formed,  nor  graceful  in  bearing,  but  quite  as  much  so  as  a 
man  of  six  feet  high  need  be.  He  had  a  manly  complexion 
of  brown,  yellow,  and  red.  His  whiskers  were  exceedingly 
large,  black,  and  well  arranged.  His  eyes,  as  I  have  before 
said,  were  round,  large,  and  hazel;  they  were  also  unmean- 
ing. His  teeth  were  good;  and  his  nose,  neither  aquiline  nor 
Grecian,  was  yet  a  very  showy  nose  upon  the  whole.  All  the 
maidservants  admired  him;  and  you  felt,  in  looking  at  him, 
that  it  was  a  pity  our  army  should  lose  so  good  a  grenadier. 

Lord  Erpingham  was  a  Whig  of  the  old  school :  he  thought 
the  Tory  boroughs  ought  to  be  thrown  open.  He  was  gener- 
ally considered  a  sensible  man.  He  had  read  Blackstone, 
Montesquieu,  Covvper's  Poems,  and  "The  Rambler;"  and  he 
was  always  heard  with  great  attention  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
In  his  moral  character  he  was  a  bon  vivant,  as  far  as  wine  is 
concerned;  for  choice  eating  he  cared  nothing.  He  was  good- 
natured,  but  close;  brave  enough  to  fight  a  duel,  if  necessary; 
and  religious  enough  to  go  to  church  once  a  week  —  in  the 
country. 

So  far  Lord  Erpingham  might  seem  modelled  from  one  of 
Sir  Walter's  heroes:  we  must  reverse  the  medal,  and  show 
the  points  in  which  he  differed  from  those  patterns  of 
propriety. 

Like  the  generality  of  his  class,  he  was  peculiarly  loose  in 
his  notions  of  women,  though  not  ardent  in  pursuit  of  them. 
His  amours  had  been  among  opera-dancers,  "because,"  as  he  | 
was  wont  to  say,  "there  was  no  d — d  bore  with  them."     Lord 
Erpingham  was  always  considered  a  high-minded  man.     Poo- 


GODOLPHIN.  57 

pie  chose  him  as  an  umpire  in  quarrels;  and  told  a  story 
(which  was  not  true)  of  his  having  lield  some  state  ofiBce  for 
a  whole  year,  and  insisted  on  returning  the  emoluments. 

Such  was  Eobert  Earl  of  Erpingham.  During  dinner,  at 
which  he  displayed,  to  his  mother's  great  delight,  a  most  ex- 
cellent appetite,  he  listened,  as  well  as  he  might,  considering 
the  more  legitimate  occupation  of  the  time  and  season,  to 
Lady  Erpingham's  recitals  of  county  history,  her  long  an- 
swers to  his  brief  inquiries  whether  old  friends  were  dead 
and  young  ones  married;  and  his  countenance  brightened  up 
to  an  expression  of  interest  —  almost  of  intelligence  —  when 
he  was  told  that  birds  were  said  to  be  plentiful. 

As  the  servants  left  the  room,  and  Lord  Erpingham  took 
his  first  glass  of  claret,  the  conversation  fell  upon  Percy 
Godolphin. 

"He  has  been  staying  with  us  a  whole  fortnight,"  said  Lady 
Erpingham ;  "  and,  by  the  by,  he  said  he  had  met  you  in  Italy, 
and  mentioned  your  name  as  it  deserved." 

"Indeed!  And  did  he  really  condescend  to  praise  me?" 
said  Lord  Erpingham,  with  eagerness;  for  there  was  that 
about  Godolphin,  and  his  reputation  for  fastidiousness,  which 
gave  a  rarity  and  a  value  to  his  praise,  at  least  to  lordly 
ears.  "Ah,  he's  a  queer  fellow;  he  led  a  very  singular  life 
in  Italy." 

"So  I  have  always  heard,"  said  Lady  Erpingham.  "But  of 
what  description, —  was  he  very  wild?  " 

"Ko,  not  exactly;  there  was  a  good  deal  of  mystery  about 
him;  he  saw  very  few  English,  and  those  were  chiefly  men 
who  played  high.  He  was  said  to  have  a  great  deal  of  learn- 
ing and  so  forth." 

"  Oh,  then  he  was  surrounded,  I  suppose,  by  those  medallists 
and  picture-sellers  and  other  impostors,  who  live  upon  such 
of  our  countrymen  as  think  themselves  blessed  with  a  taste 
or  afflicted  with  a  genius, "  said  Lady  Erpingham,  —  who,  hav- 
ing lived  with  the  wits  and  orators  of  the  time,  had  caught 
mechanically  their  way  of  rounding  a  period. 

"Far  from  it!  "  returned  the  earl.  "Godolphin  is  much  too 
deep  a  fellow  for  that;  he  's  not  easily  taken  in,  I  assure  you. 


58  GODOLPHIX. 

I  confess  I  don't  like  him  the  worse  for  that,"  added  the  close 
noble.  "But  he  lived  with  the  Italian  doctors  and  men  of 
science ;  and  encouraged,  in  particular,  one  strange  fellow  who 
affected  sorcery,  I  fancy,  or  something  very  like  it.  Godol- 
phin  resided  in  a  very  lonely  spot  at  Eome:  and  I  believe 
laboratories  and  caldrons,  and  all  sorts  of  devilish  things, 
were  always  at  work  there  —  at  least  so  people  said." 

"And  yet,"  said  Constance,  "you  thought  him  too  sensible 
to  be  easily  taken  in?  " 

"Indeed  I  do,  Miss  Vernon;  and  the  proof  of  it  is,  that  no 
man  has  less  fortune  or  is  made  more  of.  He  plays,  it  is  true, 
but  only  occasionally;  though  as  a  player  at  games  of  skill  — 
piquet,  billiards,  whist  —  he  has  no  equal,  unless  it  be  Sa- 
ville.  But  then  Saville,  entre  nous,  is  suspected  of  playing 
unfairly." 

"And  you  are  quite  sure,"  said  the  placid  Lady  Erping- 
ham,  "that  Mr.  Godolphin  is  only  indebted  to  skill  for  his 
success?  " 

Constance  darted  a  glance  of  fire  at  the  speaker. 

""Why,  faith,  I  believe  so!  No  one  ever  accused  him  of  a 
single  shabby  or  even  suspicious  trick;  and  indeed,  as  I  said 
before,  no  one  was  ever  more  sought  after  in  society,  though 
he  shuns  it;  and  he  's  devilish  right,  for  it 's  a  cursed  bore! " 

"My  dear  Eobert!  at  your  age!  "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"But,"  continued  the  earl,  turning  to  Constance, —  "but, 
Miss  Vernon,  a  man  may  have  his  weak  point;  and  the  cun- 
ning Italian  may  have  hit  on  Godolphin's,  clever  as  he  is  in 
general;  though,  for  my  part,  I  will  tell  you  frankly,  I  think 
he  only  encouraged  him  to  mystify  and  perplex  people,  just  to 
get  talked  of  —  vanity,  in  short.  He 's  a  good-looking  fellow, 
that  Godolphin,  eh?"  continued  the  earl,  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  who  meant  you  to  deny  Avhat  he  asserted. 

"  Oh,  beautiful !  "  said  Lady  Erpingham.  "  Such  a  coun- 
tenance !  " 

"Deuced  pale,  though!  —  eh?  —  and  not  the  best  of  figures; 
thin,  narrow-shouldered,  eh,  eh?" 

Godolphin's  proportions  were  faultless ;  but  your  strapping 
heroes  think  of  a  moderate-sized  man  as  mathematicians  de- 


GODOLPHIN.  59 

fine  a  point, —  declare  that  he  has  no  length  nor  breadth 
whatsoever. 

"What  say  you,  Constance?"  asked  Lady  Erpingham, 
meaningly. 

Constance  felt  the  meaning,  and  replied  calmly  that  Mr, 
Godolphin  appeared  to  her  handsomer  than  any  one  she  had 
seen  lately. 

Lord  Erpingham  played  with  his  neckcloth,  and  Lady  Erp- 
ingham rose  to  leave  the  room.  "  D — d  fine  girl !  "  said  the 
earl,  as  he  shut  the  door  upon  Constance ;  "  but  d — d  sharp !  " 
added  he,  as  he  resettled  himself  on  his  chair. 


CHAPTER   XYII. 

COXSTAXCE    AT    HER    TOILET.  HER  FEELINGS.  HER    CHARAC- 
TER   OF    BEAUTY    DESCRIBED.  THE    BALL.  THE    DUCHESS 

OF    WINSTOUX  AXD   HER   DAUGHTER.  AX    IXDUCTIOX    FROM 

THE     NATURE      OF     FEMALE      RIVALRIES.  JEALOUSY     IN     A 

LOVER.  IMPERTINENCE       RETORTED.  LISTENERS       NEVER 

HEAR    GOOD    OF    THEMSELVES.  REMARKS    ON    THE    AMUSE- 
MENTS     OF     A     PUBLIC      ASSEMBLY.  THE      SUPPER.  THE 

FALSENESS    OF    SEEMING    GAYETY.  VARIOUS    REFLECTIONS, 

NEW     AND      TRUE.  WHAT      PASSES      BETWEEN      GODOLPHIN 

AND    CONSTANCE. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  ball  to  be  given  in  honour  of  Lord 
Erpingham's  arrival.  Constance,  dressed  for  conquest,  sat 
alone  in  her  dressing-room.  Her  woman  had  just  left  her. 
The  lights  still  burned  in  profusion  about  the  antique  cham- 
ber (antique,  for  it  was  situated  in  the  oldest  part  of  the 
castle) ;  those  lights  streamed  full  upon  the  broad  brow  and 
exquisite  features  of  Miss  Yernon.  As  she  leaned  back  in 
her  chair  —  the  fairy  foot  upon  the  low  Gothic  stool,  and  the 
hands  drooping  beside  her  despondingly  —  her  countenance 
betrayed  much  but  not  serene  thought;  and  mixed  with  that 


60  GODOLPHIN. 

thouglit  was  something  of  irresolution  and  of  great  and  real 
sadness. 

It  is  not,  as  I  have  before  hinted,  to  be  supposed  that  Con- 
stance's lot  had  been  hitherto  a  proud  one,  even  though  she 
was  the  most  admired  beauty  of  her  day;  even  though  she 
lived  with,  and  received  adulation  from,  the  high  and  noble 
and  haughty  of  her  land.  Often  in  the  glittering  crowd  that 
she  attracted  around  her,  her  ear,  sharpened  by  the  jealousy 
and  pride  of  her  nature,  caught  words  that  dashed  the  cup  of 
pleasure  and  of  vanity  with  shame  and  anger.  "What!  that 
the  Vernon's  daughter?  Poor  girl!  dependent  entirely  on 
Lady  Erpingham!  Ah,  she  '11  take  in  some  rich  roturier,  I 
hope." 

Such  words  from  ill-tempered  dowagers  and  faded  beauties 
were  no  unfrequent  interruj)tion  to  her  brief -lived  and  weari- 
some triumphs.  She  heard  manoeuvring  mothers  caution  their 
booby  sons,  whom  Constance  would  have  looked  into  the  dust 
had  they  dared  but  to  touch  her  hand,  against  her  untitled 
and  undowried  charms.  She  saw  cautious  earls,  who  were  all 
courtesy  one  night,  all  coldness  another,  as  some  report  had 
reached  them  accusing  their  hearts  of  feeling  too  deeply  her 
attractions,  or  as  they  themselves  suspected  for  the  first  time 
that  a  heart  was  not  a  word  for  a  poetical  nothing,  and  that 
to  look  on  so  beautiful  and  glorious  a  creature  was  sufficient 
to  convince  them,  even  yet,  of  the  possibility  of  emotion. 
She  had  felt  to  the  quick  the  condescending  patronage  of 
duchesses  and  chaperons;  the  oblique  hint;  the  nice  and  fine 
distinction  which,  in  polished  circles,  divides  each  grade  from 
the  other,  and  allows  you  to  be  galled  without  the  pleasure  of 
feeling  justified  in  offence. 

All  this,  which,  in  the  flush  and  heyday  of  youth  and  gayety 
and  loveliness,  would  have  been  unnoticed  by  other  women, 
rankled  deep  in  the  mind  of  Constance  Vernon.  The  image 
of  her  dying  father,  his  complaints,  his  accusations  (the  jus- 
tice of  which  she  never  for  an  instant  questioned),  rose  up 
before  her  in  the  brightest  hours  of  the  dance  and  the  revel. 
She  was  not  one  of  those  women  whose  meek  and  gentle  na- 
ture would  fly  what  wounds  them :  Constance  had  resolved  to 


GODOLPHIX.  61 

conquer.  Despising  glitter  and  gayety  and  show,  she  burned, 
she  thirsted  for  power,  —  a  power  which  could  retaliate  the 
insults  she  fancied  she  had  received,  and  should  turn  conde- 
scension into  homage.  This  object,  which  every  casual  word, 
every  heedless  glance  from  another,  fixed  deeper  and  deeper 
in  her  heart,  took  a  sort  of  sanctity  from  the  associations 
with  which  she  linked  it, —  her  father's  memory  and  his 
dying  breath. 

At  this  moment  in  which  we  have  portrayed  her,  all  these 
restless  and  sore  and  haughty  feelings  were  busy  within ;  but 
they  were  combated,  even  while  the  more  fiercely  aroused,  by 
one  soft  and  tender  thought, —  the  image  of  Godolphin, —  of 
Godolphin,  the  spendthrift  heir  of  a  broken  fortune  and  a 
fallen  house.  She  felt  too  deeply  that  she  loved  him;  and 
ignorant  of  his  worldlier  qualities,  imagined  that  he  loved 
her  with  all  the  devotion  of  that  romance,  and  the  ardour  of 
that  genius,  which  appeared  to  her  to  compose  his  character. 
But  this  persuasion  gave  her  now  no  delightful  emotion. 
Convinced  that  she  ought  to  reject  him,  his  image  only 
coloured  with  sadness  those  objects  and  that  ambition  which 
she  had  hitherto  regarded  with  an  exulting  pride.  She  was 
not  the  less  bent  on  the  lofty  ends  of  her  destiny;  but  the 
glory  and  the  illusion  had  fallen  from  them.  She  had  taken 
an  insight  into  futurity,  and  felt  that  to  enjoy  power  was  to 
lose  happiness.  Yet,  with  this  full  conviction,  she  forsook 
the  happiness  and  clung  to  the  power.  Alas!  for  our  best 
and  wisest  theories,  our  problems,  our  systems,  our  philoso- 
phy !  Human  beings  will  never  cease  to  mistake  the  means 
for  the  end;  and  despite  the  dogmas  of  sages,  our  conduct 
does  not  depend  on  our  convictions. 

Carriage  after  carriage  had  rolled  beneath  the  windows  of 
the  room  where  Constance  sat,  and  still  she  moved  not;  until 
at  length  a  certain  composure,  as  if  the  result  of  some  deter- 
mination, stole  over  her  features.  The  brilliant  and  trans- 
parent hues  returned  to  her  cheek ;  and  as  she  rose  and  stood 
erect,  with  a  certain  calmness  and  energy  on  her  lip  and  fore- 
head, perhaps  her  beauty  had  never  seemed  of  so  lofty  and 
august  a  cast.     In  passing  through  the  chamber,  she  stopped 


62  GODOLPHIN. 

for  a  moment  opposite  the  mirror  that  reflected  her  stately 
shape  in  its  full  height.  Beaut}'  is  so  truly  the  weapon  of 
woman  that  it  is  as  impossible  for  her,  even  in  grief,  wholly 
to  forget  its  effect,  as  it  is  for  the  dying  warrior  to  look  with 
indifference  on  the  sword  with  which  he  has  won  his  trophies 
or  his  fame.  Nor  was  Constance  that  evening  disposed  to  be 
indifferent  to  the  effect  she  should  produce.  She  looked  on 
the  reflection  of  herself  with  a  feeling  of  triumj^h,  not  arising 
from  vanity  alone. 

And  when  did  mirror  ever  give  back  a  form  more  worthy 
of  a  Pericles  to  worship,  or  an  Apelles  to  paint?  Though 
but  little  removed  from  the  common  height,  the  impression 
Constance  always  gave  was  that  of  a  person  much  taller  than 
she  really  was.  A  certain  majesty  in  the  turn  of  the  head, 
the  fall  of  the  shoulders,  the  breadth  of  the  brow,  and  the 
exceeding  calmness  of  the  features  invested  her  with  an  air 
which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  by  an}"  one,  but  which,  had 
Pasta  been  a  beauty,  she  might  have  possessed.  But  there 
was  nothing  hard  or  harsh  in  this  majesty.  Whatsoever  of  a 
masculine  nature  Constance  might  have  inherited,  nothing 
masculine,  nothing  not  exquisitely  feminine,  was  visible  in 
her  person.  Her  shape  was  rounded,  and  sufficiently  full  to 
show  that  in  middle  age  its  beauty  would  be  preserved  by 
that  richness  and  freshness  which  a  moderate  increase  of  the 
proportions  always  gives  to  the  sex.  Her  arms  and  hands 
were,  and  are,  even  to  this  day,  of  a  beauty  the  more  striking, 
because  it  is  so  rare.  Nothing  in  any  European  country  is 
more  uncommon  than  an  arm  really  beautiful  both  in  hue  and 
shape.  In  any  assembly  we  go  to,  what  miserable  bones, 
what  angular  elbows,  what  red  skins,  do  we  see  under  the 
cover  of  those  capacious  sleeves,  which  are  only  one  whit  less 
ugly.  At  the  time  I  speak  of,  those  coverings  were  not  worn ; 
and  the  white,  round,  dazzling  arm  of  Constance,  bare  almost 
to  the  shoulder,  was  girded  by  dazzling  gems,  which  at  once 
set  off,  and  were  foiled  by,  the  beauty  of  nature.  Her  hair 
was  of  the  most  luxuriant  and  of  the  deepest  black;  and  it 
was  worn  in  a  fashion  —  then  uncommon,  without  being 
bizarre  —  now  hackneyed  by  the  plainest  faces,  though  suit- 


GODOLPHIX.  63 

ing  only  the  highest  order  of  beauty, —  I  mean  that  simple 
and  classic  fashion  to  which  the  French  have  given  a  name 
borrowed  from  Calypso,  but  which  appears  to  me  suited 
rather  to  an  intellectual  than  a  voluptuous  goddess.  Her 
long  lashes,  and  a  brow  delicately  but  darkly  pencilled,  gave 
additional  eloquence  to  an  eye  of  the  deepest  blue,  and  a 
classic  contour  to  a  profile  so  slightly  aquiline  that  it  was 
commonly  considered  Grecian.  That  necessary  completion  to 
all  real  beauty  of  either  sex,  the  short  and  curved  upper  lip, 
terminated  in  the  most  dazzling  teeth,  and  the  ripe  and  dewy 
under  lip  added  to  what  was  noble  in  her  beauty  that  charm 
also  which  is  exclusively  feminine.  Her  complexion  was  ca- 
pricious ;  now  pale,  now  tinged  with  the  pink  of  the  sea-shell, 
or  the  softest  shade  of  the  rose  leaf:  but  in  either  it  was  so 
transparent  that  you  doubted  which  became  her  the  most.  To 
these  attractions  add  a  throat,  a  bust  of  the  most  dazzling 
whiteness,  and  the  justest  proportions;  a  foot,  whose  least 
beauty  was  its  smallness,  and  a  waist  narrow, —  not  the  nar- 
rowness of  tenuity  or  constraint,  but  round,  gradual,  insen- 
sibly less  in  its  compression, —  and  the  person  of  Constance 
Vernon,  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth,  is  before  you. 

She  passed  with  her  quiet  and  stately  step  from  her  room, 
through  one  adjoining  it,  and  which  we  stop  to  notice,  because 
it  was  her  customary  sitting-room  when  not  with  Lady  Erping- 
ham.  There  had  Godolphin,  with  the  foreign  but  courtly 
freedom,  the  respectful  and  chivalric  ease  of  his  manners, 
often  sought  her;  there  had  he  lingered  in  order  to  detain  her 
yet  a  moment  and  a  moment  longer  from  other  company,  seek- 
ing a  sweet  excuse  in  some  remark  on  the  books  that  strewed 
the  tables,  or  the  music  in  that  recess,  or  the  forest  scene 
from  those  windows  through  which  the  moon  of  autumn  now 
stole  with  its  own  peculiar  power  to  soften  and  subdue.  As 
these  recollections  came  across  her,  her  step  faltered  and  her 
colour  faded  from  its  glow:  she  paused  a  moment,  cast  a 
mournful  glance  round  the  room,  and  then  tore  herself  away, 
descended  the  lofty  staircase,  passed  the  stone  hall,  melan- 
choly with  old  banners  and  rusted  crests,  and  bore  her  beauty 
and  her  busy  heart  into  the  thickening  and  gay  crowd. 


64  GODOLPHIN. 

Her  eye  looked  once  more  round  for  the  graceful  form  of 
Godolphin :  but  he  was  not  visible ;  and  she  had  scarcely  sat- 
isfied herself  of  this  before  Lord  Erpiugham,  the  hero  of  the 
evening,  approached  and  claimed  her  hand. 

"I  have  just  performed  my  duty,"  said  he,  with  a  gallantry 
of  speech  not  common  to  him,  "  now  for  my  reward.  I  have 
danced  the  first  dance  with  Lady  Margaret  Midgecombe:  1 
come,  according  to  your  promise,  to  dance  the  second  with 
you." 

There  was  something  in  these  words  that  stung  one  of  the 
morbid  remembrances  in  Miss  Vernon's  mind.  Lady  Mar- 
garet Midgecombe,  in  ordinary  life,  would  have  been  thought 
a  good-looking,  vulgar  girl;  she  was  a  duke's  daughter,  and 
she  was  termed  a  Hebe.  Her  little  nose  and  her  fresh  colour 
and  her  silly  but  not  unmalicious  laugh  were  called  enchant- 
ing; and  all  irregularities  of  feature  and  faults  of  shape  were 
absolutely  turned  into  merits  by  that  odd  commendation,  so 
common  with  us, —  "A  deuced  fine  girl;  none  of  your  regular 
beauties." 

Not  only  in  the  county  of shire,  but  in  London,  had 

Lady  Margaret  Midgecombe  been  set  up  as  the  rival  beauty 
of  Constance  Vernon.  And  Constance,  far  too  lovely,  too 
cold,  too  proud,  not  to  acknowledge  beauty  in  others  where  it 
really  existed,  was  nevertheless  unaffectedly  indignant  at  a 
comparison  so  unworthy;  she  even,  at  times,  despised  her  own 
claims  to  admiration,  since  claims  so  immeasurably  inferior 
could  be  put  into  competition  with  them.  Added  to  this  sore 
feeling  for  Lady  Margaret,  was  one  created  by  Lady  Margaret's 
mother.  The  Duchess  of  Winstoun  was  a  woman  of  ordinary 
birth,  —  the  daughter  of  a  peer  of  great  wealth  but  new  family. 
She  had  married,  however,  one  of  the  most  powerful  dukes  in 
the  peerage, —  a  stupid,  heavy,  pompous  man,  with  four  castles, 
eight  parks,  a  coal-mine,  a  tin-mine,  six  boroughs,  and  about 
thirty  livings.  Inactive  and  reserved,  the  duke  was  seldom 
seen  in  public ;  the  care  of  sujjporting  his  rank  devolved  on  the 
duchess,  and  she  supported  it  with  as  much  solemnity  of  pur- 
pose as  if  she  had  been  a  cheesemonger's  daughter.  Stately, 
insolent,  and  coarse ;  asked  everywhere ;  insulting  all ;  hated 


GODOLPHIN. 


65 


and  courted,—  such  was  the  Duchess  of  Winstoun,  and  such, 
perhaps,  have  been  other  duchesses  before  her. 

Be  it  understood  that,  at  that  day,  Fashion  had  not  risen  to 
the  despotism  it  now  enjoys :  it  took  its  colouring  from  Power, 
not  controlled  it.  I  shall  show,  indeed,  how  much  of  its  present 
condition  that  Fashion  owes  to  the  Heroine  of  these  Memoirs. 
The  Duchess  of  Winstoun  could  not  now  be  that  great  person 
she  was  then;  there  is  a  certain  good  taste  in  Fashion  which 
repels  the  mere  insolence  of  Eank,  which  requires  persons  to  be 
either  agreeable  or  brilliant  or  at  least  original,  which  weighs 
stupid  dukes  in  a  righteous  balance  and  finds  vulgar  duchesses 
wanting.  But  in  lack  of  this  new  authority,  this  moral  sebasto- 
crator  between  the  Sovereign  and  the  dignity  hitherto  consid- 
ered next  to  the  Sovereign's,  her  Grace  of  Winstoun  exercised 
with  impunity  the  rights  of  insolence.  She  had  taken  an  es- 
pecial dislike  to  Constance :  partly  because  the  few  good  judges 
of  beauty,  who  care  neither  for  rank  nor  report,  had  very  un- 
reservedly placed  Miss  Vernon  beyond  the  reach  of  all  com- 
petition with  her  daughter;  and  principally  because  the  high 
spirit  and  keen  irony  of  Constance  had  given  more  than  once 
to  the  duchess's  effrontery  so  cutting  and  so  public  a  check, 
that  she  had  felt  with  astonishment  and  rage  there  was  one 
woman  in  that  world  —  that  woman  too  unmarried  —  who 
could  retort  the  rudeness  of  the  Duchess  of  Winstoun.  Spite- 
ful, however,  and  numerous  were  the  things  she  said  of  Miss 
Vernon,  when  Miss  Vernon  was  absent;  and  haughty  beyond 
measure  were  the  inclination  of  her  head  and  the  tone  of  her 
voice  when  jSIiss  Vernon  was  present.  If,  therefore,  Con- 
stance was  disliked  by  the  duchess,  we  may  readily  believe 
that  she  returned  the  dislike.  The  very  name  roused  her 
spleen  and  her  pride ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  all  a  woman \s, 
though  scarcely  feminine  in  the  amiable  sense  of  the  word, 
that  she  learned  to  whom  the  honour  of  Lord  Erpingham's 
precedence  had  been  (though  necessaril}^)  given. 

As  Lord  Erpingham  led  her  to  her  place,  a  buzz  of  admira- 
tion and  enthusiasm  followed  her  steps.  This  pleased  Erping- 
ham more  than,  at  that  moment,  it  did  Constance.  Already 
intoxicated  by  her  beauty,  he  was  proud  of  the  effect  it  pro- 

5 


66  GODOLPHIN. 

duced  on  others,  for  that  effect  was  a  compliment  to  his  taste. 
He  exerted  himself  to  be  agreeable;  nay,  more,  to  be  fasci- 
nating: he  att'ected  a  low  voice;  and  he  attempted  —  poor 
man!  —  to  flatter. 

The  Duchess  of  Winstoun  and  her  daughter  sat  behind  on 
an  elevated  bench.  They  saw  with  especial  advantage  the 
attentions  with  which  one  of  the  greatest  of  England's  earls 
honoured  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  England's 
orators.  They  were  shocked  at  his  want  of  dignity.  Con- 
stance perceived  their  chagrin,  and  she  lent  a  more  pleased 
and  attentive  notice  to  Lord  Erpingham's  compliments;  her 
eyes  sparkled  and  her  cheek  blushed;  and  the  good  folks 
around,  admiring  Lord  Erpingham's  immense  whiskers, 
thought  Constance  in  love. 

It  was  just  at  this  time  that  Percy  Godolphin  entered  the 
room. 

Although  Godolphin 's  person  was  not  of  a  showy  order, 
there  was  something  about  him  that  always  arrested  atten- 
tion. His  air,  his  carriage,  his  long  fair  locks,  his  rich  and 
foreign  habits  of  dress,  which  his  high  bearing  and  intel- 
lectual countenance  redeemed  from  coxcombry, — all,  united, 
gave  something  remarkable  and  distinguished  to  his  appear- 
ance; and  the  interest  attached  to  his  fortunes,  and  to  his 
social  reputation  for  genius  and  eccentricity,  could  not  fail  of 
increasing  the  effect  he  produced  when  his  name  was  known. 

From  the  throng  of  idlers  that  gathered  around  him,  from 
the  bows  of  the  great  and  the  smiles  of  the  fair,  Godolphin, 
however,  directed  his  whole  notice  —  his  whole  soul  —  to  the 
spot  which  was  hallowed  by  Constance  Vernon.  He  saw  her 
engaged  with  a  man  rich,  powerful,  and  handsome ;  he  saw 
that  she  listened  to  her  partner  with  evident  interest,  that 
he  addressed  her  with  evident  admiration.  His  heart  sank 
within  him;  he  felt  faint  and  sick;  then  came  anger,  morti- 
fication; then  agony  and  despair.  All  his  former  resolutions, 
all  his  prudence,  his  worldliness,  his  caution,  vanished  at 
once;  he  felt  only  that  he  loved,  that  he  was  supplanted, 
that  he  was  undone.  The  dark  and  fierce  passions  of  his 
youth,  of  a  nature  in  reality  wild  and  vehement,  swept  away 


GODOLPHIN.  67 

at  once  the  projects  and  the  fabrics  of  that  shallow  and  chill 
philosophy  he  had  borrowed  from  the  world,  and  deemed  the 
wisdom  of  the  closet.  A  cottage  and  a  desert  with  Constance 
—  Constance  all  his,  heart  and  hand  —  would  have  been  Para- 
dise; he  would  have  nursed  no  other  ambition,  nor  dreamed 
of  a  reward  beyond.  Such  effect  has  jealousy  upon  us.  We 
confide,  and  we  hesitate  to  accept  a  boon ;  we  are  jealous,  and 
we  would  lay  down  life  to  attain  it. 

"  What  a  handsome  fellow  Erpingham  is !  "  said  a  young 
man  in  a  cavalry  regiment, 

Godolphin  heard  and  groaned  audibly. 

"And  what  a  devilish  handsome  girl  he  is  dancing  with!  " 
said  another  young  man,  from  Oxford. 

"Oh,  Miss  Yernon!  By  Jove,  Erpingham  seems  smitten. 
What  a  capital  thing  it  would  be  for  her!  " 

"And  for  him,  too!  "  cried  the  more  chivalrous  Oxonian. 

"Humph!  "  said  the  officer. 

"I  heard,"  renewed  the  Oxonian,  "that  she  was  to  be  mar- 
ried to  young  Godolphin.  He  was  staying  here  a  short  time 
ago.  They  rode  and  walked  together.  What  a  lucky  fellow 
he  has  been!  I  don't  know  any  one  I  should  so  much  like  to 
see." 

"Hush!  "  said  a  third  person,  looking  at  Godolphin. 

Percy  moved  on.  Accomplished  and  self-collected  as  he 
usually  was,  he  could  not  wholly  conceal  the  hell  within. 
His  brow  grew  knit  and  gloomy;  he  scarcely  returned  the 
salutations  he  received;  and  moving  out  of  the  crowd,  he 
stole  to  a  seat  behind  a  large  pillar,  and,  scarcely  seen  by  any 
one,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  form  and  movements  of  Miss 
Vernon. 

It  so  happened  that  he  had  placed  himself  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  Duchess  of  Winstoun,  and  within  hearing  of  the  con- 
versation that  I  am  about  to  record. 

The  dance  being  over,  Lord  Erpingham  led  Constance  to  a 
seat  close  by  Lady  Margaret  Midgecombe.  The  duchess  had 
formed  her  plan  of  attack;  and,  rising  as  she  saw  Constance 
within  reach,  approached  her  with  an  air  that  affected  civility. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Vernon?    I  am  happy  to  see  you 


68  GODOLPHIN. 

looking  so  well.     "What  truth  in  the  report,  eh?  "     And  the 
duchess  showed  her  teeth, —  videlicet,  smiled. 

"What  report  does  your  grace  allude  to?  " 

"Nay,  nay;  I  am  sure  Lord  Erpingham  has  heard  it  as  well 
as  myself;  and  I  wish  for  your  sake  (a  slight  emphasis),  in- 
deed, for  both  your  sakes,  thab  it  may  be  true." 

"  To  wait  till  the  Duchess  of  Winstoun  speaks  intelligibly 
would  be  a  waste  of  her  time  and  my  own,"  said  the  haughty 
Constance,  with  the  rudeness  in  which  she  then  delighted, 
and  for  which  she  has  since  become  known.  But  the  duch- 
ess was  not  to  be  olfended  until  she  had  completed  her 
mancBuvre. 

"Well,  now,"  said  she,  turning  to  Lord  Erpingham,  "I 
appeal  to  you;  is  not  Miss  Vernon  to  be  married  very  soon 
to  Mr.  Godolphin?  I  am  sure  [with  an  affected  good-nature 
and  compassion  that  stung  Constance  to  the  quick],  I  am  sure 
I  hope  so." 

"Upon  my  word  you  amaze  me,"  said  Lord  Erpingham, 
opening  to  their  fullest  extent  the  large,  round,  hazel  eyes 
for  which  he  was  so  justly  celebrated.  "  I  never  heard  this 
before." 

"Oh,  a  secret  as  yet?"  said  the  duchess;  "very  well!  I 
can  keep  a  secret." 

Lady  Margaret  looked  down,  and  laughed  prettily. 

"I  thought  till  now,"  said  Constance,  with  grave  compos- 
ure, "that  no  person  could  be  more  contemptible  than  one 
who  collects  idle  reports :  I  now  find  I  was  wrong :  a  person 
infinitely  more  contemptible  is  one  who  invents  them." 

The  rude  duchess,  beat  at  her  own  weapons,  blushed  with 
anger  even  through  her  rouge;  but  Constance  turned  away, 
and,  still  leaning  on  Lord  Erpingham's  arm,  sought  another 
seat;  that  seat,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  pillar  behind 
which  Godolphin  sat,  was  still  within  his  hearing. 

"Upon  my  word.  Miss  Vernon,"  said  Erpingham,  "I  ad- 
mire your  spirit.  Nothing  like  setting  down  those  absurd 
people  who  try  to  tease  one,  and  think  one  dares  not  retort. 
But  pray  —  I  hope  I  'm  not  impertinent  —  pray,  may  I  ask  if 
this  rumour  have  ayiy  truth  in  it?  " 


GODOLPHIN. 


69 


"Certainly  not,"  said  Constance,  with  great  effort,  but  in  a 
clear  tone. 

"ISTo;  I  should  have  thought  not,  I  should  have  thought 
not.  Godolphin  's  much  too  poor, —  much  too  poor  for  you. 
Miss  Vernon  is  not  born  to  marry  for  love  in  a  cottage,  is 
she?  " 

Constance  sighed. 

That  soft,  low  tone  thrilled  to  Godolphin's  very  heart.  He 
bent  forward:  he  held  his  breath;  he  thirsted  for  her  voice, 
for  some  tone,  some  word  in  answer;  it  came  not  at  that 
moment. 

"You  remember,"  renewed  the  earl, —  "you  remember  Miss 

L ?    No?  she  wag  before  your  time.     Well,  she  married 

S ,  much  such  another  fellow  as  Godolphin.     He  had  not 

a  shilling ;  but  he  lived  well,  had  a  house  in  Mayf air,  gave 
dinners,  hunted  at  Melton,  and  so  forth, —  in  short,  he  played 
high.  She  had  about  £10,000.  They  married,  and  lived  for 
two  years  so  comfortably,  you  have  no  idea.  Every  one  en- 
vied them.  They  did  not  keep  a  close  carriage,  but  he  used 
to  drive  her  out  to  dinners  in  his  French  cabriolet.^  There 
was  no  show,  no  pomp:  everything  deuced  neat,  though;  quite 
love  in  a  cottage, —  only  the  cottage  was  in   Curzon  Street. 

At  length,  however,  the  cards  turned;  S lost  everything: 

owed  more  than  he  could  ever  pay.      We  were  forced  to  cut 

him;  and  his  relation,  Lord ,  coming  into  the  ministry  a 

year  afterwards,  got  him  a  place  in  the  Customs.  They  live 
at  Brompton;  he  wears  a  pepper-and-salt  coat,  and  she  a 
mob-cap,  with  pink  ribbons ;  they  have  five  hundred  a  year, 

and  ten  children.     Such  was  the  fate  of  S 's  wife;   such 

may  be  the  fate  of  Godolphin's.  Oh,  Miss  Vernon  could  not 
marry  him  !  " 

"You  are  right.  Lord  Erpingham,"  said  Constance  with 
emphasis;  "but  you  take  too  much  license  in  expressing  your 
opinion." 

Before  Lord  Erpingham  could  stammer  forth  his  apology, 
they  heard  a  slight  noise  behind.  They  turned;  Godolphin 
had  risen.  His  countenance,  always  inclined  to  a  calm  se- 
1  Then  uncommon. 


70  GODOLPHIN. 

verity  —  for  thought  is  usually  severe  in  its  outward  aspect  — 
bent  now  on  both  the  speakers  with  so  dark  and  menacing  an 
aspect  that  the  stout  earl  felt  his  heart  stand  still  for  a  mo- 
ment; and  Constance  was  appalled  as  if  it  had  been  the  ap- 
parition, and  not  the  living  form,  of  her  lover  that  she  beheld. 
But  scarcely  had  they  seen  this  expression  of  countenance 
ere  it  changed.  With  a  cold  and  polished  smile,  a  relaxed 
brow,  and  profound  inclination  of  his  form,  Godolphin  greeted 
the  two ;  and  passing  from  his  seat  with  a  slow  step  glided 
among  the  crowd  and  vanished. 

What  a  strange  thing,  after  all,  is  a  great  assembly !  An 
immense  mob  of  persons,  who  feel  for  each  other  the  pro- 
foundest  indifference,  met  together  ta  join  in  amusements 
which  the  large  majority  of  them  consider  wearisome  beyond 
conception.  How  unintellectual,  how  uncivilized,  such  a 
scene  and  such  actors !  What  a  remnant  of  barbarous  times, 
when  people  danced  because  they  had  nothing  to  say!  Were 
there  nothing  ridiculous  in  dancing,  there  would  be  nothing 
ridiculous  in  seeing  wise  men  dance.  But  that  sight  would 
be  ludicrous  because  of  the  disparity  between  the  mind  and 
the  occupation.  However,  we  have  some  excuse;  we  go  to 
these  assemblies  to  sell  our  daughters,  or  flirt  with  our  neigh- 
bours' wives.  A  ballroom  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a 
great  market-place  of  beauty.  For  my  part,  were  I  a  buyer, 
I  should  like  making  my  purchases  in  a  less  public  mart. 

"Come,  Godolphin,  a  glass  of  champagne,"  cried  the  young 
Lord  Belvoir,  as  they  sat  near  each  other  at  the  splendid 
supper. 

*'  With  all  my  heart ;  but  not  from  that  bottle !  We  must 
have  a  new  one ;  for  this  glass  is  pledged  to  Lady  Delmour, 
and  I  would  not  drink  to  her  health  but  from  the  first  sparkle ! 
jSTothing  tame,  nothing  insipid,  nothing  that  has  lost  its  first 
freshness,  can  be  dedicated  to  one  so  beauiful  and  young." 

The  fresh  bottle  was  opened,  and  Godolphin  bowed  over  his 
glass  to  Lord  Belvoir's  sister, —  a  Beauty  and  a  Blue.  Lady 
Delmour  admired  Godolphin,  and  she  was  flattered  by  a  com- 
pliment that  no  one  wholly  educated  in  England  would  have 
had  the  gallant  courage  to  utter  across  a  crowded  table. 


GODOLPHIN.  71 

"You  have  been  dancing?  "  said  she. 

"No!" 

"What  then?" 

"What  then?"  said  Godolphin.  "Ah,  Lady  Delmour,  do 
not  ask."  The  look  that  accompanied  the  words  supplied 
them  with  a  meaning.  "Need  I  add,"  said  he,  in  a  lower 
voice,  "that  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  most  beautiful  person 
present?  " 

"Fooh,"  said  Lady  Delmour,  turning  away  her  head. 

Now,  that  ^oo7t  is  a  very  significant  word.  On  the  lips  of 
a  man  of  business,  it  denotes  contempt  for  romance;  on  the 
lips  of  a  politician  it  rebukes  a  theory;  with  that  monosylla- 
ble a  philosopher  massacres  a  fallacy;  by  those  four  letters 
a  rich  man  gets  rid  of  a  beggar.  But  in  the  rosy  mouth  of  a 
woman  the  harshness  vanishes,  the  disdain  becomes  encour- 
agement. "Pooh!"  says  the  lady,  when  you  tell  her  she  is 
handsome;  but  she  smiles  when  she  says  it.  With  the  same 
reply  she  receives  your  protestation  of  love,  and  blushes  as 
she  receives.  With  men  it  is  the  sternest,  with  women  the 
softest,  exclamation  in  the  language. 

"Pooh!  "  said  Lady  Delmour,  turning  away  her  head, — 
and  Godolphin  was  in  singular  spirits.  What  a  strange  thing 
that  we  should  call  such  hilarity  from  our  gloom !  The  stroke 
induces  the  flash;  excite  the  nerves  by  jealousy,  by  despair, 
and  with  the  proud  you  only  trace  the  excitement  by  the  mad 
mirth  and  hysterical  laughter  it  creates. 

Godolphin  was  charming  comvie  iin  amo^ir,  and  the  young 
countess  was  delighted  with  his  gallantry. 

"Did  you  ever  love?  "  asked  she,  tenderly,  as  they  sat  alone 
after  supper. 

"Alas,  yes!"  said  he. 

"How  often?" 

"Kead  Marmontel's  story  of  the  *  Four  Phials; '  I  have  no 
other  answer." 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  tale  that  is !  The  whole  history  of  a 
man's  heart  is  contained  in  it." 

While  Godolphin  was  thus  talking  with  Lady  Delmour,  his 
whole  soul  was  with  Constance;  of  her  only  he  thought,  and 


72  GODOLPHIN. 

on  her  he  thirsted  for  revenge.  There  is  a  curious  phenome- 
non in  love,  showing  how  much  vanity  has  to  do  with  even 
the  best  species  of  it,  when,  for  your  mistress  to  prefer  an- 
other, changes  all  your  affection  into  hatred :  —  is  it  the  loss 
of  the  mistress,  or  her  preference  to  the  other?  The  last,  to 
be  sure:  for  if  the  former,  you  would  only  grieve;  but  jeal- 
ousy does  not  make  you  grieve,  it  makes  you  enraged;  it  does 
not  sadden,  it  stings.  After  all,  as  we  grow  old,  and  look 
back  on  the  "master  passion,"  how  we  smile  at  the  fools  it 
made  of  us,  at  the  importance  we  attach  to  it,  of  the  millions 
that  have  been  governed  by  it!  When  we  examine  the  pas- 
sion of  love,  it  is  like  examining  the  character  of  some  great 
man;  we  are  astonished  to  perceive  the  littlenesses  that  be- 
long to  it.  We  ask  in  w^onder,  "  How  come  such  effects  from 
such  a  cause?  " 

Godolphin  continued  talking  sentiment  with  Lady  Delmour, 
until  her  lord,  who  was  very  fond  of  his  carriage-horses,  came 
up  and  took  her  away ;  and  then,  perhaj)s,  glad  to  be  relieved, 
Percy  sauntered  into  the  ballroom,  where,  though  the  crowd 
was  somewhat  thinned,  the  dance  was  continued  with  that 
spirit  which  always  seems  to  increase  as  the  night  advances. 

For  my  own  part,  I  now  and  then  look  late  in  at  a  ball  as  a 
warning  and  grave  memento  of  the  flight  of  time.  No  amuse- 
ment belongs  of  right  so  essentially  to  the  young  in  their 
first  youth,  to  the  unthinking,  the  intoxicated,  to  those  whose 
blood  is  an  elixir. 

"If  Constance  be  woman,"  said  Godolphin  to  himself,  as  he 
returned  to  the  ballroom,  "  I  will  yet  humble  her  to  my  will. 
I  have  not  learned  the  science  so  long  to  be  now  foiled  in  the 
first  moment  I  have  seriously  wished  to  triumph." 

As  this  thought  inspired  and  excited  him,  he  moved  along 
at  some  distance  from  but  carefully  within  the  sight  of  Con- 
stance. He  paused  by  Lady  Margaret  Midgecombe.  He  ad- 
dressed her.  Notwithstanding  the  insolence  and  the  ignorance 
of  the  Duchess  of  Winstoun,  he  was  well  received  by  both 
mother  and  daughter.  Some  persons  there  are,  in  all  times 
and  in  all  spheres,  who  command  a  certain  respect,  bought 
neither  by  riches,  rank,  nor  even  scrupulous  morality  of  con- 


I 


GODOLPHIX.  73 

duct.  They  win  it  by  the  reputation  that  talent  alone  can 
win  them,  and  which  yet  is  not  always  the  reputation  of 
talent.  No  man,  even  in  the  frivolous  societies  of  the  great, 
obtains  homage  without  certain  qualities,  which,  had  they 
been  happily  directed,  would  have  conducted  him  to  fame. 

Had  the  attention  of  a  Grammont,  or  of  a  ,  been  early 

turned  towards  what  ought  to  be  the  objects  desired,  who  can 
doubt  that,  instead  of  the  heroes  of  a  circle,  they  might  have 
been  worthy  of  becoming  names  of  posterity? 

Thus  the  genius  of  Godolphin  had  drawn  around  him  an 
Mat  which  made  even  the  haughtiest  willing  to  receive  and 
to  repay  his  notice;  and  Lady  Margaret  actually  blushed  with 
pleasure  when  he  asked  her  to  dance.  A  foreign  dance,  thon 
only  very  partially  known  in  England,  had  been  called  for: 
few  were  acquainted  Avith  it, —  those  only  who  had  been 
abroad;  and  as  the  movements  seemed  to  require  peculiar 
grace  of  person,  some  even  among  those  few  declined,  through 
modest}",  the  exhibition. 

To  this  dance  Godolphin  led  Lady  Margaret.  All  crowded 
round  to  see  the  performers ;  and  as  each  went  through  the 
giddy  and  intoxicating  maze,  they  made  remarks  on  the  awk- 
wardness or  the  singularity  or  the  impropriety  of  the  dance. 
But  when  Godolphin  began,  the  murmurs  changed.  The  slow 
and  stately  measure  then  adapted  to  the  steps  was  one  in 
which  the  graceful  symmetry  of  his  person  might  eminently 
display  itself.  Lady  Margaret  was  at  least  as  well  acquainted 
with  the  dance :  and  the  couple  altogether  so  immeasurably 
excelled  all  competitors,  that  the  rest,  as  if  sensible  of  it, 
stopped  one  after  the  other;  and  when  Godolphin,  perceiving 
that  they  were  alone,  stopped  also,  the  spectators  made  their 
approbation  more  audible  than  approbation  usually  is  in  pol- 
ished society. 

As  Godolphin  paused,  his  eyes  met  those  of  Constance. 
There  was  not  there  the  expression  he  had  anticipated: 
there  was  neither  the  anger  of  jealousy,  nor  the  restlessness 
of  offended  vanity,  nor  the  desire  of  conciliation,  visible  in 
those  large  and  speaking  orbs.  A  deep,  a  penetrating,  a  sad 
inquiry  seemed  to  dwell  in  her  gaze, —  seemed  anxious  to 


74  GODOLPHIN. 

pierce  into  liis  heart,  and  to  discover  whether  there  she 
possessed  the  power  to  wound,  or  whether  each  had  been 
deceived:  so  at  least  seemed  that  fixed  and  melancholy  in- 
tenseness  of  look  to  Godolphin.  He  left  Lady  Margaret 
abruptly;  in  an  instant  he  was  by  the  side  of  Constance. 

**You  must  be  delighted  with  this  evening,"  said  he,  bit- 
terly. "  Wherever  I  go  I  hear  your  praises :  every  one  ad- 
mires you;  and  he  who  does  not  admire  so  much  as  worship 
you,  he  alone  is  beneath  your  notice.  He,  born  to  such  shat- 
tered fortunes,  —  he  indeed  might  never  aspire  to  that  which 
titled  and  wealthy  idiots  deem  they  may  corinnand, —  the 
hand  of  Constance  Vernon." 

It  was  with  a  low  and  calm  tone  that  Godolphin  spoke. 
Constance  turned  deadly  pale:  her  frame  trembled;  but  she 
did  not  answer  immediately.  She  moved  to  a  seat  retired  a 
little  from  the  busy  crowd ;  Godolphin  followed  and  sat  him- 
self beside  her;  and  then,  with  a  slight  effort,  Constance 
spoke. 

"  You  heard  what  was  said,  Mr.  Godolphin,  and  I  grieve  to 
think  you  did.  If  I  offended  you,  however,  forgive  me,  I 
pray  you;  I  pray  it  sincerely,  warmly.  God  knows  I  have 
suffered  myself  enough  from  idle  words,  and  from  the  slight- 
ing opinion  with  which  this  hard  world  visits  the  poor,  not 
to  feel  deep  regret  and  shame  if  I  wound,  by  like  means, 
another,  more  especially"  —  Constance's  voice  trembled, — 
"more  especially  you  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  she  turned  her  eyes  on  Godolphin,  and  they 
were  full  of  tears.  The  tenderness  of  her  voice,  her  look, 
melted  him  at  once.  Was  it  to  him,  indeed,  that  the  haughty 
Constance  addressed  the  words  of  kindness  and  apology, —  to 
him  whose  intrinsic  circumstances  she  had  heard  described 
as  so  unworthy  of  her,  and,  his  reason  told  him,  with  such 
justice? 

"  Oh,  Miss  Vernon !  "  said  he,  passionately;  "  Miss  Vernon  — 
Constance  —  dear,  dear  Constance!  dare  I  call  you  so?  hear 
me  one  word.  I  love  you  with  a  love  which  leaves  me  no 
words  to  tell  it.  I  know  my  faults,  my  poverty,  my  un- 
worthiness ;  but  —  but  —  may  I  —  may  I  hope?  " 


GODOLPinX.  T5 

And  all  the  woman  was  in  Constance's  cheek,  as  she  lis- 
tened. That  cheek,  how  richly  was  it  dyed!  Her  eyes 
drooped;  her  bosom  heaved.  How  every  word  in  those 
broken  sentences  sank  into  her  heart!  never  was  a  tone  for- 
gotten. The  child  may  forget  its  mother,  and  the  mother 
desert  the  child;  but  never,  never  from  a  woman's  heart 
departs  the  memory  of  the  first  confession  of  love  from  him 
whom  she  first  loves !  She  lifted  her  eyes,  and  again  with- 
drew them,  and  again  gazed. 

"This  must  not  be,"  at  last  she  said;  "no,  no!  it  is  folly, 
madness  in  both !  " 

*'  Xot  so ;  nay,  not  so !  "  whispered  Godolphin,  in  the  soft- 
est notes  of  a  voice  that  could  never  be  harsh.  "  It  may  seem 
folly,  madness  if  you  will,  that  the  brilliant  and  all-idolized 
Miss  Vernon  should  listen  to  the  vows  of  so  lowly  an  adorer ; 
but  try  me,  prove  me,  and  own  —  yes,  you  will  own  some 
years  hence  —  that  that  folly  has  been  happy  beyond  the  hap- 
piness of  prudence  or  ambition." 

"This,"  answered  Constance,  struggling  with  her  emo- 
tions,—  "this  is  no  spot  or  hour  for  such  a  conference.  Let 
us  meet  to-morrow  —  the  western  chamber." 

"And  the  hour?" 

"Twelve!" 

"And  I  may  hope  —  till  then?  " 

Constance  again  grew  pale ;  and  in  a  voice  that,  though  it 
scarcely  left  her  lips,  struck  coldness  and  dismay  into  his 
sudden  and  delighted  confidence,  answered, — 

"  No,  Percy,  there  is  no  hope !  —  none !  " 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

THE    INTERVIEW.  THE    CRISIS    OF    A    LIFE. 

The  western  chamber  was  that  I  have  mentioned  as  the  one 
in  which  Constance  usually  fixed  her  retreat,  when  neither 
sociability'  nor  state  summoned  her  to  the  more  public  apart- 


76  GODOLPHIN. 

nients.  I  should  have  said  that  Godolphin  slept  in  the  house; 
for,  coming  from  a  distance  and  through  country  roads,  Lady 
Erpingham  had  proffered  him  that  hospitality,  and  he  had 
willingly  accepted  it.  Before  the  appointed  hour,  he  was  at 
the  appointed  spot. 

He  had  passed  the  hours  till  then  without  even  seeking  his 
pillow-  In  restless  strides  across  his  chamber,  he  had  re- 
volved those  words  with  which  Constance  had  seemed  to  deny 
the  hopes  she  herself  had  created.  All  private  and  more  sel- 
fish schemes  or  reflections  had  vanished,  as  by  magic,  from 
the  mind  of  a  man  prematurely  formed,  but  not  yet  wholly 
hardened  in  the  mould  of  worldly  speculation.  He  thought 
no  more  of  what  he  should  relinquish  in  obtaining  her  hand; 
with  the  ardour  of  bo3'ish  and  real  love,  he  thought  only  of 
her.  It  was  as  if  there  existed  no  world  but  the  little  spot 
in  which  she  breathed  and  moved. 

Poverty,  privation,  toil,  the  change  of  the  manners  and 
habits  of  his  whole  previous  life,  to  those  of  professional  en- 
terprise and  self-denial, —  to  all  this  he  looked  forward,  not 
so  much  with  calmness  as  with  triumph. 

"Be  but  Constance  mine!"  said  he  again  and  again;  and 
again  and  again  those  fatal  words  knocked  at  his  heart,  "No 
hope, —  none!"  and  he  gnashed  his  teeth  in  very  anguish, 
and  muttered,  "  But  mine  she  will  not  —  she  will  never  be !  " 

Still,  hoAvever,  before  the  hour  of  noon,  something  of  his 
habitual  confidence  returned  to  him.  He  had  succeeded, 
though  but  partially,  in  reasoning  away  the  obvious  meaning 
of  the  words;  and  he  ascended  to  the  chamber  from  the  gar- 
dens, in  which  he  had  sought,  by  the  air,  to  cool  his  mental 
fever,  with  a  sentiment,  ominous  and  doubtful  indeed,  but 
still  removed  from  despondency  and  despair. 

The  day  was  sad  and  heav}-.  A  low,  drizzling  rain,  and 
labouring  yet  settled  clouds,  which  denied  all  glimpse  of  the 
sky,  and  seemed  cursed  into  stagnancy  by  the  absence  of  all 
wnnd  or  even  breeze,  increased,  by  those  associations  we  en- 
deavour in  vain  to  resist,  the  dark  and  oppressive  sadness  of 
his  thoughts. 

He  paused  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  chamber : 


GODOLPHIN.  77 

he  listened;  and  iu  the  acute  and  painful  life  which  seemed 
breathed  into  all  his  senses,  he  felt  as  if  he  could  have  heard 
—  though  without  the  room  —  the  very  breath  of  Constance, 
or  known,  as  by  an  inspiration,  the  presence  of  her  beauty. 
He  opened  the  door  gently :  all  was  silence  and  desolation  for 
him, —  Constance  was  not  there! 

He  felt,  however,  as  if  that  absence  was  a  relief.  He 
breathed  more  freely,  and  seemed  to  himself  more  prepared 
for  the  meeting.  He  took  his  station  by  the  recess  of  the 
window:  in  vain, —  he  could  rest  in  no  spot;  he  walked  to 
and  fro,  pausing  only  for  a  moment  as  some  object  before  him 
reminded  him  of  past  and  more  tranquil  hours.  The  books 
he  had  admired,  and  which,  at  his  departure,  had  been  left  in 
their  usual  receptacle  at  another  part  of  the  house,  he  now 
discovered  on  the  tables;  they  opened  of  themselves  at  the 
passages  he  had  read  aloud  to  Constance:  those  passages,  in 
his  presence,  she  had  not  seemed  to  admire ;  he  was  inexpres- 
sibly touched  to  perceive  that,  in  his  absence,  they  had  be- 
come dear  to  her.  As  he  turned  with  a  beating  heart  from 
this  silent  proof  of  affection,  he  was  startled  by  the  sudden 
and  almost  living  resemblance  to  Constance,  which  struck 
upon  him  in  a  full-length  picture  opposite,  —  the  picture  of 
her  father.  That  picture,  by  one  of  the  best  of  our  great 
modern  masters  of  the  art,  had  been  taken  of  Vernon  in  the 
proudest  epoch  of  his  prosperity  and  fame.  He  was  por- 
trayed in  the  attitude  in  which  he  had  uttered  one  of  the 
most  striking  sentences  of  one  of  his  most  brilliant  orations : 
the  hand  was  raised,  the  foot  advanced,  the  chest  expanded. 
Life,  energy,  command,  flashed  from  the  dark  eye,  breathed 
from  the  dilated  nostril,  broke  from  the  inspired  lip.  That 
noble  brow,  those  modelled  features,  that  air,  so  full  of  the 
royalty  of  genius  —  how  startlingly  did  they  resemble  the 
softer  lineaments  of  Constance! 

Arrested,  in  spite  of  himself,  by  the  skill  of  the  limner, 
and  the  characteristic  of  the  portrait,  Godolphin  stood  mo- 
tionless and  gazing  till  the  door  opened,  and  Constance 
herself  stood  before  him.  She  smiled  faintly,  but  with 
sweetness  as  she  approached;  and  seating  herself,  motioned 


78  GODOLPHIN. 

him  to  a  chair  at  a  little  distance.  He  obeyed  the  gesture 
in  silence. 

"Godolphin!"  said  she,  softly.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice 
he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  and  lixed  them  on  her 
countenance  with  a  look  so  full  of  an  imploring  and  earnest 
meaning,  so  expressive  of  the  passion,  the  suspense  of  his 
heart,  that  Constance  felt  her  voice  cease  at  once.  But  he 
saw  as  he  gazed  how  powerful  had  been  his  influence.  Not  a 
vestige  of  bloom  was  on  her  cheek:  her  very  lips  were  colour- 
less; her  eyes  were  swollen  with  weeping;  and  though  she 
seemed  very  calm  and  self-possessed,  all  her  wonted  majesty 
of  mien  was  gone.  The  form  seemed  to  shrink  within  itself. 
Humbleness  and  sorrow  —  deep,  passionate,  but  (^uiet  sorrow 

—  had  supplanted  the  haughtiness  and  the  elastic  freshness  of 
her  beauty.  "Mr.  Godolphin,"  she  repeated,  after  a  pause, 
"answer  me  truly  and  with  candour;  not  with  the  world's 
gallantry,  but  with  a  sincere,  a  plain  avowal.     Were  you  not 

—  in  your  unguarded  expressions  last  night  —  were  you  not 
excited  by  the  surprise,  the  passion,  of  the  moment?  Were 
you  not  uttering  what,  had  you  been  actuated  only  by  a 
calm  and  premeditated  prudence,  you  would  at  least  have 
suppressed?  " 

"Miss  Vernon,"  replied  Godolphin,  "all  that  I  said  last 
night,  I  now,  in  calmness,  and  with  deliberate  premeditation, 
repeat:  all  that  I  can  dream  of  happiness  is  in  your  hands." 

"I  would,  indeed,  that  I  could  disbelieve  you,"  said  Con- 
stance, sorrowfully;  "  I  have  considered  deeply  on  your  words. 
I  am  touched,  made  grateful,  proud  —  yes,  truly  proud,  by 
your  confessed  affection  —  but  —  " 

"Oh,  Constance!  "  cried  Godolphin,  in  a  sudden  and  agon- 
ized voice,  and  rising,  he  flung  himself  impetuously  at  her 
feet, —  "Constance!  do  not  reject  me!" 

He  seized  her  hand;  it  struggled  not  with  his.  He  gazed 
on  her  countenance :  it  was  dyed  in  blushes ;  and  before  those 
blushes  vanished,  her  agitation  found  relief  in  tears,  which 
flowed  fast  and  full. 

"Beloved!"  said  Godolphin,  with  a  solemn  tenderness, 
''why  struggle  with  your  heart?     That  heart  I  read  at  this 


GODOLPinX.  79 

moment:  that  is  not  averse  to  me."  Constance  wept  on.  "I 
know  wliat  you  would  say,  and  what  you  feel,"  continued 
Godolpbin;  ''you  think  that  I  —  that  we  both  are  poor;  that 
you  could  ill  bear  the  humiliations  of  that  haughty  poverty 
which  those  born  to  higher  fortunes  so  irksomely  endure. 
You  tremble  to  link  your  fate  with  one  who  has  been  impru- 
dent, lavish, —  selfish,  if  you  will.  You  recoil  before  you  in- 
trust your  happiness  to  a  ma,n  who,  if  he  wreck  that,  can  offer 
you  nothing  in  return, —  no  rank,  no  station,  nothing  to  heal 
a  bruised  heart,  or  cover  its  wound,  at  least,  in  the  rich  dis- 
guises of  power  and  wealth.  Am  I  not  right,  Constance? 
Do  I  not  read  your  mind?" 

"  Xo  I  "  said  Constance,  with  energy,  "  Had  I  been  born 
any  man's  daughter  but  his  from  whom  I  take  my  name; 
were  I  the  same  in  all  things,  mind  and  heart,  save  in  one 
feeling,  one  remembrance,  one  object,  that  I  am  now, — 
Heaven  is  my  witness  that  I  would  not  cast  a  thought  upon 
poverty,  upon  privation;  that  I  would  —  nay,  I  do  —  I  do 
confide  in  your  vows,  your  affection.  If  you  have  erred,  I 
know  it  not.  If  any  but  you  tell  me  you  have  erred,  I  believe 
them  not.  You  I  trust  wholly  and  implicitly.  Heaven,  I 
say,  is  my  witness  that,  did  I  obey  the  voice  of  my  selfish 
heart,  I  would  gladly,  proudly,  share  and  follow  your  for- 
tunes. You  mistake  me  if  you  think  sordid  and  vulgar  ambi- 
tion can  only  influence  me.  No!  I  could  be  worthy  of  you! 
The  daughter  of  John  Vernon  could  be  a  worthy  wife  to  the 
man  of  indigence  and  genius.  In  your  poverty  I  could  soothe 
you;  in  your  labour  I  could  support  you;  in  your  reverses 
console,  in  your  prosperity  triumph.  But  —  but,  it  must  not 
be.  Go,  Godolphin  —  dear  Godolphin!  There  are  thousands 
better  and  fairer  than  I  am,  who  will  do  for  you  as  I  would 
have  done ;  but  who  possess  the  power  I  have  not,  who,  in- 
stead of  sharing,  can  raise  your  fortunes.  Go!  —  and  if  it 
comfort,  if  it  soothe  you,  believe  that  I  have  not  been  insen- 
sible to  your  generosity,  your  love.  My  best  wishes,  my 
fondest  prayers,  my  dearest  hopes,  are  yours." 

Blinded  by  her  tears,  subdued  by  her  emotions,  Constance 
was  still  herself.     She  rose;   she  extricated  her  hand  from 


80  GODOLPHIN. 

Godolpli ill's;  she  turued  to  leave  the  room.  But  Godolphin, 
still  kneeling,  caught  hold  of  her  robe,  and  gently  but  efCeotu- 
ally  detained  her. 

" The  picture  you  have  painted,"  said  he,  '*do  not  destroy 
at  once.  You  have  portrayed  yourself  my  soother,  guide, 
restorer.  You  can,  indeed  yo\x  can,  be  this.  You  do  not 
know  me,  Constance.  Let  me  say  one  word  for  myself. 
Hitherto,  I  have  shunned  fame  and  avoided  ambition.  Life 
has  seemed  to  me  so  short,  and  all  that  even  glory  wins  so 
poor,  that  I  have  thought  no  labour  worth  the  price  of  a 
single  hour  of  pleasure  and  enjoyment.  For  you,  how  joy- 
fully will  I  renounce  my  code!  For  myself  I  could  ask  no 
honour;  for  you,  I  will  labour  for  ail.  No  toil  shall  be  dry 
to  me,  no  pleasure  shall  decoy.  I  will  renounce  my  idle  and 
desultory  pursuits.  I  Avill  enter  the  great  public  arena,  where 
all  who  come  armed  with  patience  and  with  energy  are  sure 
to  win.  Constance,  I  am  not  without  talents,  though  they 
have  slept  within  me;  say  but  the  word,  and  jow  know  not 
what  they  can  produce." 

An  irresolution  in  Constance  was  felt  as  a  sympathy  by 
Godolphin;  he  continued, — 

"We  are  both  desolate  in  the  world,  Constance;  we  are 
orphans, —  friendless,  fortuneless.  Y"et  both  have  made  our 
way  without  friends,  and  commanded  our  associates,  though 
without  fortune.  Does  not  this  declare  we  have  that  within 
us  which,  when  we  are  united,  can  still  exalt  or  conquer  our 
destiny?  And  we  —  we  —  alone  in  the  noisy  and  contentious 
world  with  which  we  strive  —  we  shall  turn,  after  each  effort, 
to  our  own  hearts,  and  find  there  a  comfort  and  a  shelter. 
All  things  will  bind  us  closer  and  closer  to  each  other.  The 
thought  of  our  past  solitude,  the  hope  of  our  future  objects, 
will  only  feed  the  fountain  of  our  present  love.  And  how 
much  sweeter,  Constance,  will  be  honours  to  you,  if  we  thus 
win  them, —  sanctified  as  they  will  be  by  the  sacrifices  we  have 
made;  by  the  thought  of  the  many  hours  in  which  we  de- 
sponded, yet  took  consolation  from  each  other;  by  the  thought 
how  we  sweetened  mortifications  by  sympathy,  and  made  even 
the  lowest  successes  noble  by  the  endearing  associations  with 


GODOLnilN.  81 

which  we  allied  them!  How  much  sweeter  to  you  will  be 
such  honours  than  those  which  you  might  command  at  once, 
but  accompanied  by  a  cold  heart;  rendered  wearisome  because 
won  with  ease  and  low  because  undignified  by  fame!  Oh, 
Constance!  am  I  not  heard?  Have  not  love,  nature,  sense, 
triumphed?  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  had  risen  gently,  and  wound  his  arms 
around  her  not  reluctant  form ;  her  head  reclined  upon  his 
bosom;  her  hand  was  surrendered  to  his;  and  his  kiss  stole 
softly  and  unchidden  to  her  cheek.  At  that  instant,  the  fate 
of  both  hung  on  a  very  hair.  How  different  might  the  lot, 
the  character,  of  each  have  been,  had  Constance's  lips  pro- 
nounced the  words  that  her  heart  already  recorded!  And 
she  might  have  done  so;  but  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  the  same 
object  that  had  before  affected  Godolphiu  came  vividly  upon 
her,  and  changed,  as  by  an  electric  shock,  the  whole  current 
of  her  thoughts.  Full  and  immediately  before  her  was  the 
picture  of  her  father.  The  attitude  there  delineated,  so  strik- 
ing at  all  times,  seemed  to  Constance  at  that  moment  more 
than  ever  impressive,  and  even  awful  in  the  livinfjness  of  its 
command.  It  was  the  face  of  Vernon  in  the  act  of  speech,  of 
warning,  of  reproof;  such  as  she  had  seen  it  often  in  private 
life;  such  as  she  had  seen  it  in  his  bitter  maledictions  on  his 
hollow  friends  at  the  close  of  his  existence;  nay,  such  as  she 
had  seen  it  —  only  more  fearful,  and  ghastly  with  the  hues  of 
(^eath  —  in  his  last  hours;  in  those  hours  in  which  he  had 
pledged  her  to  the  performance  of  his  revenge,  and  bade  her 
live  not  for  love  but  the  memory  of  her  sire. 

With  the  sight  of  that  face  rushed  upon  her  the  dark  and 
solemn  recollections  of  that  time  and  of  that  vow.  The  weak- 
ness of  love  vanished  before  the  returning  force  of  a  senti- 
ment nursed  through  her  earliest  years,  fed  by  her  dreams, 
strengthened  by  her  studies,  and  hardened  by  the  daring  ener- 
gies of  a  nature  lofty  yet  fanatical,  into  the  rule,  the  end,  nay, 
the  very  religion  of  life!  She  tore  herself  away  from  the  sur- 
prised and  dismayed  Godolphin;  she  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  before  the  picture;  her  lips  moved  rapidly;  the  rapid 
and  brief  prayer  for  forgiveness  was  over,  and  Constance  rose 

6 


82  GODOLPHIN. 

a  new  being.  She  turned  to  Godolphin,  and,  lifting  her  arm 
towards  the  picture,  as  she  regarded,  with  her  bright  and 
kindling  eyes,  the  face  of  her  lover,  she  said, — 

"  As  you  think  now,  thought  he  whose  voice  speaks  to  you 
from  the  canvas;  he,  who  pursued  the  path  that  you"  would 
tread ;  who,  through  the  same  toil,  the  same  pursuit,  that  you 
would  endure,  used  the  same  powers  and  the  same  genius  you 
would  command;  he,  who  won  —  what  you  might  win  also  at 
last  —  the  smile  of  princes,  the  trust  of  nobles,  the  shifting 
and  sandy  elevation  which  the  best,  the  wisest,  and  greatest 
statesmen  in  this  country,  if  unbacked  by  a  sordid  and  cabal- 
ling faction,  can  alone  obtain, —  he  warns  you  from  that 
hollow  distinction,  from  its  wretched  consummation.  Oh, 
Godolphin ! "  she  continued,  subdued,  and  sinking  from  a 
high-wrought  but  momentary  paroxysm,  uncommon  to  her 
collected  character,  "  oh,  Godolphin !  I  saw  that  man  dying, 
deserted,  lonely,  cursed  by  his  genius,  ruined  by  his  pros- 
perity. I  saw  him  dying  —  die  —  of  a  broken  and  trampled 
heart.  Could  I  doom  another  victim  to  the  same  course  and 
the  same  perfidy  and  the  same  fate?  Could  I,  with  a  silent 
heart,  watch  by  that  victim;  could  I,  viewing  his  certain 
doom,  elate  him  with  false  hopes?  No,  no!  fly  from  me, — 
from  the  thought  of  such  a  destiny.  Marry  one  who  can 
bring  you  wealth,  and  support  you  with  rank;  then  be  ambi- 
tious if  you  will.  Leave  me  to  fulfil  my  doom, —  my  vow; 
and  to  think,  however  wretched  I  may  be,  that  I  have  not  in- 
flicted a  permanent  wretchedness  on  you." 

Godolphin  sprang  forward;  but  the  door  closed  upon  his 
eyes ;  and  he  saw  Constance  —  as  Constance  Vernon  —  no 
more. 


GODOLPHIN.  83 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

A  RAKE  AND  EXQUISITE  OF  THE  BEST  (wORST)  SCHOOL.  —  A 
CONVERSATIOX  OX  A  THOUSAND  MATTERS.  THE  DECLEN- 
SION OF  THE  "SUI  PROFUSUS"  INTO  THE  "  ALIENI  APPE- 
TENS." 

There  was,  in  the  day  I  now  refer  to,  a  certain  house  in 
Chesterfield  Street,  Mayfair,  which  few  young  men  anxious 
for  the  ddat  of  society  passed  without  a  wish  for  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  inmate.  To  that  small  and  dingy  mansion,  with 
its  verandas  of  dusky  green  and  its  blinds  perpetually  drawn, 
there  attached  an  interest,  a  consideration,  and  a  mystery. 
Thither,  at  the  dusk  of  night,  were  the  hired  carriages  of 
intrigue  wont  to  repair,  and  dames  to  alight,  careful  seem- 
ingly of  concealment,  yet  wanting,  perhaps,  even  a  reputa- 
tion to  conceal.  Few,  at  the  early  hours  of  morn,  passed  that 
street  on  their  way  home  from  some  glittering  revel  without 
noticing  some  three  or  four  chariots  in  waiting,  or  without 
hearing  from  within  the  walls  the  sounds  of  protracted  fes- 
tivity. That  house  was  the  residence  of  a  man  who  had  never 
done  anything  in  public,  and  yet  was  the  most  noted  person- 
age in  "Society:"  in  early  life,  the  all-accomplished  Love- 
lace! in  later  years  mingling  the  graces  with  the  decayed 
heart  and  the  want  of  principle  of  a  Grammont.  Feared, 
contemned,  loved,  hated,  ridiculed,  honoured,  the  very  genius, 
the  very  personification,  of  a  civilized  and  profligate  life 
seemed  embodied  in  Augustus  Saville.  Hitherto  we  have 
spoken  of,  let  us  now  describe  him. 

Born  to  the  poor  fortunes  and  equivocal  station  of  cadet  in 
a  noble  but  impoverished  house,  he  had  passed  his  existence 
in  a  round  of  lavish,  but  never  inelegant,  dissipation.  Un- 
like other  men,  whom  yoiith  and  money  and  the  flush  of 
health  and  aristocratic  indulgence  allure  to  follies  which 
shock  the  taste  as  well  as  the  morality  of  the  wise,  Augustus. 


84  GODOLPHIN. 

Saville  had  never  committed  an  error  which  was  not  var- 
nished by  grace,  and  limited  by  a  profound  and  worldly  discre- 
tion. A  systematic  votary  of  pleasure,  no  woman  had  ever 
through  him  lost  her  reputation  or  her  sphere, —  whether  it 
was  that  he  corrupted  into  fortunate  dissimulation  the  minds 
that  he  betrayed  into  guilt,  or  whether  he  chose  his  victims 
with  so  just  a  knowledge  of  their  characters  and  of  the  cir- 
cumstances round  them,  that  he  might  be  sure  the  secrecy 
maintained  by  himself  would  scarcely  be  divulged  elsewhere. 
All  the  world  attributed  to  Augustus  Saville  the  most  various 
and  consummate  success  in  that  quarter  in  which  success  is 
most  envied  by  the  lighter  part  of  the  world;  yet  no  one 
could  say  exactly  who,  amongst  the  many  he  addressed,  had 
been  the  object  of  his  triumph.  The  same  quiet  and  yet 
victorious  discretion  waited  upon  all  he  did.  Never  had  he 
stooped  to  win  celebrity  from  horses  or  from  carriages;  noth- 
ing in  his  equipages  showed  the  ambition  to  be  distinguished 
from  another;  least  of  all  did  he  affect  that  most  displeasing 
of  minor  ostentations,  that  offensive  exaggeration  of  neatness, 
that  outre  simplicity,  which  our  young  nobles  and  aspiring 
bankers  so  ridiculously  think  it  hon  ton  to  assume.  No  har- 
ness industriously  avoiding  brass ;  no  liveries  pretending  to 
the  tranquillity  of  a  gentleman's  dress;  no  panels  disdaining 
the  armorial  attributes  of  which  real  dignity  should  neither 
be  ashamed  nor  proud,  converted  plain  taste  into  a  display  of 
plainness.  He  seldom  appeared  at  races,  and  never  hunted; 
though  he  was  profound  master  of  the  calculations  in  the 
first,  and  was,  as  regarded  the  second,  allowed  to  be  one  of 
the  most  perfect  masters  of  horsemanship  in  his  time.  So, 
in  his  dress,  while  he  chose  even  sedulously  what  became 
him  most,  he  avoided  the  appearance  of  coxcombry,  by  a  dis- 
regard to  minutiae.  He  did  not  value  himself  on  the  perfec- 
tion of  his  boot,  and  suffered  a  wrinkle  in  his  coat  without 
a  sigh;  yet  even  the  exquisites  of  the  time  allowed  that  no 
one  was  more  gentleman-like  in  the  tout- ensemble;  and  while 
he  sought  by  other  means  than  dress  to  attract,  he  never  even 
in  dress  offended.  Carefully  shunning  the  character  of  the 
professed  wit  or   the   general   talker,    he  was   yet   piquant, 


GODOLPHIN.  85 

shrewd,  and  animated  to  the  few  persons  whom  he  addressed, 
01-  with  whom  he  associated;  and  though  he  had  refused  all 
offers  to  enter  public  life,  he  was  sufficiently  master  of  the 
graver  subjects  that  agitated  the  times  to  impress  even  those 
practically  engaged  in  them  with  a  belief  in  his  information 
and  his  talents. 

But  he  was  born  poor;  and  yet  he  had  lived  for  nearly 
thirty  years  as  a  rich  man!  What  was  his  secret?  —  he  had 
lived  upon  others.  At  all  games  of  science  he  played  with  a 
masterly  skill;  and  in  those  wherein  luck  preponderates, 
there  are  always  chances  for  a  cool  and  systematic  calcu- 
lation. He  had  been,  indeed,  suspected  of  unfair  play;  but 
the  charge  had  never  cooled  the  eagerness  with  which  he  had 
been  courted.  With  far  better  taste,  and  in  far  higher  esti- 
mation than  Brummell,  he  obtained  an  equal  though  a  more 
secret  sway.  Every  one  was  desirous  to  know  him :  without 
his  acquaintance,  the  young  debutant  felt  that  he  wanted  the 
qualification  to  social  success;  by  his  intimacy,  even  vulgar- 
ity became  the  rage.  It  was  true  that,  as  no  woman's  dis- 
grace was  confessedly  traced  to  him,  so  neither  was  any 
man's  ruin  —  save  only  in  the  doubtful  instance  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Johnstone.  He  never  won  of  any  person,  however 
ardent,  more  than  a  certain  portion  of  his  fortune, —  the  rest 
of  his  undoing  Saville  left  to  his  satellites;  nay,  even  those 
who  had  in  reality  most  reason  to  complain  of  him  never  per- 
ceived his  due  share  in  their  impoverishment.  It  was  com- 
mon enough  to  hear  men  say,  "Ah,  Saville,  I  wish  I  had 
taken  your  advice,  and  left  off  while  I  had  yet  half  my  for- 
tune !  "  They  did  not  accurately  heed  that  the  first  half  was 
Saville's,  because  the  first  half  had  excited,  not  ruined  them. 

Besides  this  method  of  making  money,  so  strictly  social, 
Saville  had  also  applied  his  keen  intellect  and  shrewd  sense 
to  other  speculations.  Cheap  houses,  cheap  horses,  fluctua- 
tions in  the  funds,  all  descriptions  of  property  (except  per- 
haps stolen  goods),  had  passed  under  his  earnest  attention; 
and  in  most  cases  such  speculations  had  eminently  succeeded. 
He  was  therefore  now,  in  his  middle  age,  and  still  unmar- 
ried, a  man  decidedly  wealthy;  having,  without  ever  playing 


86  GODOLPIIIX. 

the  miser,  without  ever  stinting  a  luxury  or  denying  a  wish, 
turned  nothing  into  something,  poverty  into  opulence. 

It  was  noon;  and  Saville  was  slowly  finishing  his  morning 
repast,  and  conversing  with  a  young  man  stretched  on  a  sofa 
opposite  in  a  listless  attitude.  The  room  was  in  perfect  "keep- 
ing with  the  owner:  there  was  neither  velvet  nor  gilding  nor 
buJd  nor  marquetrie  —  all  of  which  would  have  been  inconsis- 
tent with  the  moderate  size  of  the  apartment.  But  the  fur- 
niture was  new,  massive,  costly,  and  luxurious  without  the 
ostentation  of  luxury.  A  few  good  pictures,  and  several  ex- 
quisite busts  and  figures  in  bronze,  upon  marble  pedestals, 
gave  something  classic  and  graceful  to  the  aspect  of  the  room. 
Annexed  to  the  back  drawing-room,  looking  over  Lord  Ches- 
terfield's gardens,  a  small  conservatory,  filled  with  rich  ex- 
otics, made  the  only  feature  in  the  apartment  that  might 
have  seemed,  to  a  fastidious  person,  effeminate  or  unduly 
voluptuous. 

Saville  himself  was  about  forty-seven  years  of  age :  of  a 
person  slight  and  thin,  without  being  emaciated;  a  not  un- 
graceful, though  habitual  stoop,  diminished  his  height,  which 
might  be  a  little  above  the  ordinary  standard.  In  his  youth 
he  had  been  handsome ;  but  in  his  person  there  was  now  little 
trace  of  any  attraction  beyond  that  of  a  manner  remarkably  soft 
and  insinuating:  yet  in  his  narrow  though  high  forehead,  his 
sharp  aquiline  nose,  gray  eye,  and  slightly  sarcastic  curve  of 
lip,  something  of  his  character  betrayed  itself.  You  saw,  or 
fancied  you  saw,  in  them  the  shrewdness,  the  delicacy  of  tact; 
the  consciousness  of  duping  others;  the  subtle  and  intuitive, 
yet  bland  and  noiseless  penetration  into  the  characters  around 
him,  which  made  the  prominent  features  of  his  mind.  And, 
indeed,  of  all  qualities,  dissimulation  is  that  which  betrays 
itself  the  most  often  in  the  physiognomy.  A  fortunate  thing, 
that  the  long  habit  of  betraying  should  find  at  times  the  index 
in  which  to  betray  itself. 

"But  you  don't  tell  me,  my  dear  Godol plain,"  said  Saville, 
as  he  broke  the  toast  into  his  chocolate, —  "you  don't  tell  me 
how  the  world  emploj'ed  itself  at  Rome.  Were  there  any  of 
the  true  calibre  there, —  steady  fellows,  yet  ardent,  like  my- 


GODOLPHIN.  87 

self;  men  who  make  us  feel  our  strength  and  put  it  forth, 
with  whom  we  cannot  dally  nor  idle,  who  require  our  coolness 
of  head,  clearness  of  memory,  ingenuity  of  stratagem, —  in  a 
word,  men  of  my  art,  the  art  of  play:  were  there  any 
such?  " 

"Not  many,  but  enough  for  honour,"  said  Godolphin;  "for 
myself,  I  have  long  forsworn  gambling  for  profit," 

"  Ah,  I  always  thought  you  wanted  that  perseverance  which 
belongs  to  strength  of  character.  And  how  stand  your  re- 
sources now, —  sufficient  to  recommence  the  world  here  with 
credit  and  iclat  ?  " 

"Ay,  were  I  so  disposed,  Saville.  But  I  shall  return  to 
Italy.     Within  a  month  hence,  I  shall  depart." 

"What!  and  only  just  arrived  in  town!  An  heir  in 
possession!  " 

"Of  what?" 

"  The  reputation  of  having  succeeded  to  a  property,  the  ex- 
tent of  which,  if  wise,  you  will  tell  to  no  one !  Are  you  so 
young,  Godolphin,  as  to  imagine  that  it  signifies  one  crumb 
of  this  bread  what  be  the  rent-roll  of  your  estate,  so  long  as 
you  can  obtain  credit  for  any  sum  to  which  you  are  pleased 
to  extend  it?  Credit!  beautiful  invention! — the  moral  new 
world  to  which  we  fly  when  banished  from  the  old.  Credit! 
—  the  true  charity  of  Providence,  by  which  they  who  other- 
wise would  starve  live  in  plenty,  and  despise  the  indigent 
rich.  Credit!  —  admirable  system,  alike  for  those  who  live 
on  it  and  the  wiser  few  who  live  by  it.  Will  you  borrow 
some  money  of  me,  Godolphin?  " 

"At  what  percentage?  " 

"Why,  let  me  see:  funds  are  low;  I  '11  be  moderate.  But 
stay;  be  it  with  you  as  I  did  with  George  Sinclair.  You 
shall  have  all  you  want,  and  pay  me  with  a  premium,  when 
you  marry  an  heiress.  Why,  man,  you  wince  at  the  word 
'  marry  '  !  " 

"'T  is  a  sore  subject,  Saville:  one  that  makes  a  man  think 
of  halters." 

"You  are  right, —  I  recognize  my  young  pupil.  Your  old 
play-writers  talked  nonsense  when  they  said  men  lost  liberty 


88  GODOLPHIN. 

of  persoa  by  marriage.  Men  lose  liberty,  but  it  is  the  liberty 
of  the  mind.  We  cease  to  be  independent  of  the  world's 
word,  when  we  grow  respectable  with  a  wife,  a  fat  butler, 
two  children,  and  a  family  coach.  It  makes  a  gentleman 
little  better  than  a  grocer  or  a  king!  But  you  have -seen 
Constance  Vernon.  Why,  out  on  this  folly,  Godolphin !  You 
turn  away.  Do  you  fancy  that  I  did  not  penetrate  your  weak- 
ness the  moment  you  mentioned  her  name ;  still  less,  do  you 
fancy,  my  dear  young  friend,  that  I,  who  have  lived  through 
nearly  half  a  century,  and  know  our  nature,  and  the  whole 
thermometer  of  our  blood,  think  one  jot  the  worse  of  you  for 
forming  a  caprice  —  or  a  passion,  if  you  will  —  for  a  woman 
who  would  set  an  anchoret,  or,  what  is  still  colder,  a  worn- 
out  debauchee,  on  fire?  Bah!  Godolphin,  I  am  wiser  than 
you  take  me  for.  And  I  will  tell  you  more.  For  your  sake, 
I  am  happy  that  you  have  incurred  already  this,  our  common 
folly  (which  we  all  have  once  in  a  life),  and  that  the  fit  is 
over.  I  do  not  pry  into  your  secrets, —  I  know  their  delicacy. 
I  do  not  ask  which  of  you  drew  back;  for,  to  have  gone  for- 
ward, to  have  married,  would  have  been  madness  in  both. 
Nay,  it  was  an  impossihilitij :  it  could  not  have  happened  to 
niy  pupil, —  the  ablest,  the  subtlest,  the  wisest  of  my  pupils. 
But,  however  it  was  broken  off,  I  repeat  that  I  am  glad  it 
happened.  One  is  never  sure  of  a  man's  wisdom  till  he  has 
been  really  and  vainly  in  love.  You  know  what  that  moral- 
izing lump  of  absurdity,  Lord  Edouard,  has  said  in  the 
'Julie,'  —  'The  path  of  the  passions  conducts  us  to  phi- 
losophy ! '  It  is  true,  very  true :  and  now  that  the  path  has 
been  fairly  trod,  the  goal  is  at  hand.  Now,  I  can  confide  in 
your  steadiness ;  now,  I  can  feel  that  you  will  run  no  chance 
in  future  of  over-appreciating  that  bauble,  AVoman.  You 
will  beg,  borrow,  steal,  and  exchange  or  lose  the  jewel,  with 
the  same  delicious  excitement,  coupled  with  the  same  steady 
indifference,  with  which  we  play  at  a  more  scientific  game, 
and  for  a  more  comprehensive  reward.  I  say  more  compre- 
hensive reward :  for  how  many  women  may  we  be  able  to  buy 
by  a  judicious  bet  on  the  odd  trick !  " 

"Your  turn  is   sudden,"  said  Godolphin,   smiling;    "and 


GODOLPHIN.  89 

there  is  some  justice  in  your  reasoning.  The  fit  is  over;  and 
if  ever  I  can  be  wise,  I  have  entered  on  wisdom  now.  But 
talk  of  this  no  more." 

"I  will  not,"  said  Saville,  whose  unerring  tact  had  reached 
just  the  point  where  to  stop,  and  who  had  led  Godolphin 
through  just  that  vein  of  conversation,  half  sentimentalizing, 
half  sensible,  all  profligate,  which  seldom  fails  to  win  the  ear 
of  a  man  both  of  imagination  and  of  the  world.  "I  will  not; 
and,  to  vary  the  topic,  I  will  turn  egotist,  and  tell  you  my 
adventures." 

With  this,  Saville  began  a  light  and  amusing  recital  of  his 
various  and  singular  life  for  the  last  three  years.  Anecdote, 
jest,  maxim,  remark,  interspersed,  gave  a  zest  and  piquancy 
to  the  narration.  An  accomplished  roite  always  affects  to 
moralize;  it  is  a  part  of  his  character.  There  is  a  vague  and 
shrewd  sentiment  that  pervades  his  viorale  and  his  system. 
Frequent  excitement,  and  its  attendant  relaxation;  the  con- 
viction of  the  folly  of  all  pursuits;  the  insipidity  of  all  life; 
the  hollowness  of  all  love;  the  faithlessness  in  all  ties;  the 
disbelief  in  all  worth, —  these  consequences  of  a  dissipated 
existence  on  a  thoughtful  mind  produce  some  remarkable, 
while  they  make  so  many  wretched,  characters.  They  col- 
oured some  of  the  most  attractive  prose  among  the  French, 
and  the  most  fascinating  verse  in  the  pages  of  Byron.  It 
might  be  asked,  by  a  profane  inquirer  (and  1  have  touched  on 
this  before),  what  effect  a  life  nearly  similar  —  a  life  of  lux- 
ury, indolence,  lassitude,  profuse,  but  heartless  love  —  im- 
parted to  the  deep  and  touching  wisdom  in  his  page,  whom 
we  consider  the  wisest  of  men,  and  who  has  left  us  the  most 
melancholy  of  doctrines? 

It  was  this  turn  of  mind  that  made  Saville's  conversation 
peculiarly  agreeable  to  Godolphin  in  his  present  humour;  and 
the  latter  invested  it,  from  his  own  mood,  with  a  charm 
which  in  reality  it  wanted.  For,  as  I  shall  show  in  Godol- 
phin what  deterioration  the  habits  of  frivolous  and  worldly 
life  produce  on  the  mind  of  a  man  of  genius,  I  show  only  in 
Saville  the  effect  they  produce  on  a  man  of  sense. 

"Well,  Godolphin,"  said  Saville,  as  he  saw  the  former  rise 


90  GODOLPHIN. 

to  depart;  "you  will  at  least  dine  with  me  to-day,  —  a  punctual 
eight.  I  think  I  can  promise  you  an  agreeable  evening.  The 
Linettini  and  that  dear  little  Fanny  Millinger  (your  o\&  flame) 
are  coming;  and  I  have  asked  old  Stracey,  the  poet,  to  say  bons 
mots  for  them.  Poor  old  Stracey!  He  goes  about  to  all  his 
former  friends  and  fellow -liberals,  boasting  of  his  favour  witli 
the  Great,  and  does  not  see  that  we  only  use  him  as  we  would 
a  puppet-show  or  a  dancing-dog." 

"What  folly,"  said  Godolphin,  "it  is  in  any  man  of  genius 
(not  also  of  birth)  to  think  the  Great  of  this  country  can 
possibly  esteem  him!  Nothing  can  equal  the  secret  enmity 
with  which  dull  men  regard  an  intellect  above  their  compre- 
hension. Party  politics,  and  the  tact,  the  shifting,  the  com- 
monplace that  Party  politics  alone  require,  —  these  they 
can  appreciate;  and  they  feel  respect  for  an  orator,  even 
though  he  be  not  a  county  member,  for  he  can  assist  them 
in  their  paltry  ambition  for  place  and  pension:  but  an 
author  or  a  man  of  science  —  the  rogues  positively  jeer  at 
him!" 

"And  yet,"  said  Saville,  "how  few  men  of  letters  perceive 
a  truth  so  evident  to  us,  so  hackneyed  even  in  the  conversa- 
tions of  society !  For  a  little  reputation  at  a  dinner-table,  for 
a  coaxing  note  from  some  titled  demirep  affecting  the  De 
Stael,  they  forget  not  only  to  be  glorious  but  even  to  be  re- 
spectable. And  this,  too,  not  only  for  so  petty  a  gratification, 
but  for  one  that  rarely  lasts  above  a  London  season.  We  allow 
the  low-born  author  to  be  the  lion  this  year,  but  we  dub  him 
a  bore  the  next.  We  shut  our  doors  upon  his  twice-told  jests, 
and  send  for  the  Prague  minstrels  to  sing  to  us  after  dinner 
instead." 

"However,"  said  Godolphin,  "it  is  only  poets  you  find  so 
foolish  as  to  be  deceived  by  you.  There  is  not  a  single  prose 
writer  of  real  genius  so  absurd." 

"And  why  is  that?" 

"Because,"  replied  Godolphin,  philosophizing,  "poets  ad- 
dress themselves  more  to  women  than  men;  and  insensibly 
they  acquire  the  weaknesses  which  they  are  accustomed  to 
address.     A  poet  whose  verses  delight  the  women  will  be 


GODOLPHIN.  91 

found,  if  we  closely  analyze  his  character,  to  be  very  like  a 
woman  himself." 

"You  don't  love  poets?  "  said  Saville. 

"The  glory  of  old  has  departed  from  them, —  I  mean  less 
from  their  pages  than  their  minds.  We  have  plenty  of  beau- 
tiful poets,  but  how  little  poetry  breathing  of  a  great  soul !  " 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  a  Mr.  Glosson  was  announced. 
There  entered  a  little,  smirking,  neat-dressed  man,  prim  as  a 
lawyer  or  a  house-agent. 

"Ah,  Glosson,  is  that  you?"  said  Saville,  with  something 
like  animation;  "sit  down,  my  good  sir, —  sit  down.  Weill 
well!    [rubbing  his  hands]  what  news?  what  news?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Saville,  I  think  we  may  get  the  land  from  old 

.     He  has  the  right  of  the  job.    I  have  been  with  him  all 

this  morning.     He  asks  £6,000  for  it." 

"  The  rinconscionable  dog !  He  got  it  from  the  crown  for 
two." 

"Ah,  very  true, —  very  true:  but  you  don't  see,  sir, —  you 
don't  see,  that  it  is  well  worth  nine.  Sad  times,  sad 
times:  jobs  from  the  crown  are  growing  scarcer  every  day, 
Mr.  Saville." 

"Humph!  that's  all  a  chance,  a  speculation.  Times  are 
bad  indeed,  as  you  say :  no  money  in  the  market ;  go,  Glosson, 
offer  him  five;  your  percentage  shall  be  one  per  cent  higher 
than  if  I  pay  six  thousand,  and  shall  be  counted  up  to  the 
latter  sum." 

"He,  he,  he!  sir!  "  grinned  Glosson;  "you  are  fond  of  your 
joke,  Mr.  Saville." 

"Well,  now;  what  else  in  the  market?  Never  mind  my 
friend :  Mr.  Godolphin  —  Mr.  Glosson ;  now  all  gene  is  over ; 
proceed,  —proceed." 

Glosson  hummed  and  bowed  and  hummed  again,  and  then 
glided  on  to  speak  of  houses  and  crown  lands  and  properties 
in  Whales,  and  places  at  court  (for  some  of  the  subordinate 
posts  at  the  palace  were  then  —  perhaps  are  now  —  regular 
matter  of  barter) ;  and  Saville,  bending  over  the  table,  with 
his  thin  delicate  hands  clasped  intently,  and  his  brow  denot- 
ing his  interest,  and  his  sharp  shrewd  eye  fixed  on  the  agent, 


92  GODOLPHIN. 

iurnislied  to  the  contemplative  Godolphin  a  picture  whicli  he 
did  not  fail  to  note,  to  moralize  on,  to  despise ! 

What  a  spectacle  is  that  of  the  prodigal  rake,  hardening 
and  sharpening  into  the  grasping  speculator! 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FANNY    MILLINGER    ONCE    MORE.  LOVE.  WOMAN.  BOOKS. 

A    HUNDRED     TOPICS     TOUCHED    ON    THE    SURFACE.  GO" 

DOLPHIn's   STATE   OF   MIND    MORE    MINUTELY   EXAMINED. 

THE   DINNER   AT   SAVILLE's. 

GoDOLPHiN  went  to  see  and  converse  with  Fanny  Millinger. 

She  was  still  unmarried,  and  still  the  fashion.  There  was 
a  sort  of  allegory  of  real  life,  in  the  manner  in  which,  at  cer- 
tain epochs,  our  Idealist  was  brought  into  contact  with  the 
fair  actress  of  ideal  creations.  There  was,  in  short,  some- 
thing of  a  moral  in  the  way  these  two  streams  of  existence  — 
the  one  belonging  to  the  Actual,  the  other  to  the  Imaginary  — 
flowed  on,  crossing  each  other  at  stated  times.  Which  was 
the  more  really  imaginative, —  the  life  of  the  stage,  or  that  of 
the  world's  stage? 

The  gay  Fanny  was  rejoiced  to  welcome  back  again  her 
early  lover.  She  ran  on,  talking  of  a  thousand  topics,  with- 
out remarking  the  absent  mind  and  musing  eye  of  Godolphin, 
till  he  himself  stopped  her  somewhat  abruptly, — 

"Well,  Fanny,  well,  and  what  do  you  know  of  Saville? 
You  have  grown  intimate  with  him,  eh?  We  shall  meet  at 
his  house  this  evening." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  a  charming  person  in  his  little  way;  and 
the  only  man  who  allows  me  to  be  a  friend  without  dreaming 
of  becoming  a  lover.  Now  that 's  what  I  like.  We  poor  ac- 
tresses have  so  much  would-be  love  in  the  course  of  our  lives, 
that  a  little  friendship  now  and  then  is  a  novelty  which  other 
and  soberer  people  can  never  appreciate.     On  reading  '  Gil 


GODOLPHIN.  93 

Bias  '  the  otiier  day  —  I  am  no  great  reader,  as  you  may  re- 
member —  I  was  struck  by  that  part  in  which  the  dear  Santil- 
lane  assures  us  that  there  was  never  any  love  between  him 
and  Laura  the  actress.  I  thought  it  so  true  to  nature,  so 
I^robable,  that  they  should  have  formed  so  strong  an  intimacy 
tor  each  other,  lived  in  the  same  house,  had  every  opportu- 
nity for  love,  yet  never  loved.  And  it  was  exactly  because 
she  was  an  actress  and  a  light  good-for-nothing  creature  that 
it  so  happened ;  the  very  multiplicity  of  lovers  prevented  her 
falling  in  love;  the  very  carelessness  of  her  life,  poor  girl, 
rendered  a  friend  so  charming  to  her.  It  would  have  spoiled 
the  friend  to  have  made  him  an  adorer;  it  would  have  turned 
the  rarity  into  the  every-day  character.  Xow,  so  it  is  with 
me  and  Saville;  I  like  his  wit,  he  likes  my  good  temper.  We 
see  each  other  as  often  as  if  we  were  in  love ;  and  yet  I  do  not 
believe  it  even  possible  that  he  should  ever  kiss  my  hand. 
After  all,"  continued  Fanny,  laughing,  "love  is  not  so  neces- 
sary to  us  women  as  people  think.  Fine  writers  say,  '  Oh,  men 
have  a  thousand  objects,  women  but  one ! '  That 's  nonsense, 
dear  Percy;  women  have  their  thousand  objects  too.  They 
have  not  the  Bar,  but  they  have  the  milliner's  shop;  they 
can't  fight,  but  they  can  sit  by  the  window  and  embroider  a 
work-bag;  they  don't  rush  into  politics,  but  they  plunge  their 
souls  into  love  for  a  parrot  or  a  lap-dog.  Don't  let  men  flatter 
themselves ;  Providence  has  been  just  as  kind  in  that  respect 
to  one  sex  as  to  the  other:  our  objects  are  small,  yours  great; 
but  a  small  object  may  occupy  the  mind  just  as  much  as  the 
loftiest." 

"Ours  great!  pshaw!"  said  Godolphin,  who  was  rather 
struck  with  Fanny's  remarks;  "there  is  nothing  great  in 
those  professions  which  man  is  pleased  to  extol.  Is  sellish- 
ness  great?  Are  the  low  trickery,  the  organized  lies  of  the 
Bar,  a  great  calling?  Is  the  mechanical  slavery  of  the  soldier 
—  fighting  because  he  is  in  the  way  of  fighting,  without  know- 
ing the  cause,  without  an  object,  save  a  dim,  foolish  vanity 
which  he  calls  glory,  and  cannot  analyze  —  is  that  a  great  aim 
and  vocation?  Well:  the  senate!  look  at  the  outcry  which 
wise  men  make  against  the  loathesome  corruption  of  that 


94  GODOLPIIIK. 

arena;  then  look  at  the  dull  hours,  the  tedious  talk,  the 
empty  boasts,  the  poor  and  flat  rewards,  and  tell  me  where 
is  the  greatness?  No,  Fanny!  the  embroidered  work-bag  and 
the  petted  parrot  afford  just  as  great  —  morally  great  —  occu- 
pations as  those  of  the  Bar,  the  army,  the  senate.  It  is  only 
the  frivolous  who  talk  of  frivolities;  there  is  nothing  frivo- 
lous; all  earthly  occupations  are  on  a  par, —  alike  impor- 
tant if  they  alike  occupy;  for  to  the  wise  all  are  poor  and 
valueless." 

"I  fancy  you  are  very  wrong,"  said  the  actress,  pressing 
her  pretty  Angers  to  her  forehead,  as  if  to  understand  him; 
"but  I  cannot  tell  you  why,  and  I  never  argue.  I  ramble  on 
in  my  odd  way,  casting  out  my  shrewd  things  without  de- 
fending them  if  any  one  chooses  to  quarrel  with  them.  What 
I  do  I  let  others  do.  My  maxim  in  talk  is  my  maxim  in  life. 
I  claim  liberty  for  myself,  and  give  indulgence  to  others." 

"I  see,"  said  Godolphin,  "that  you  have  plenty  of  books 
about  you,  though  you  plead  not  guilty  to  reading.  Do  j^ou 
learn  your  philosophy  from  them, —  for  I  think  you  have  con- 
tracted a  vein  of  reflection  since  we  parted  which  I  scarcely 
recognize  as  an  old  characteristic." 

"Why,"  answered  Fanny,  "though  I  don't  read,  I  skim. 
Sometimes  I  canter  through  a  dozen  novels  in  a  morning.  I 
am  disappointed,  I  confess,  in  all  these  works;  I  want  to  see 
more  real  knowledge  of  the  world  than  they  ever  disjAay. 
They  tell  us  how  Lord  Arthur  looked,  and  Lady  Lucy  dressed, 
and  Avhat  was  the  colour  of  those  curtains,  and  these  eyes,  and 
so  forth;  and  then  the  better  sort,  perhaps,  do  also  tell  us 
what  the  heroine  felt  as  well  as  wore,  and  try  with  might  and 
main  to  pull  some  string  of  the  internal  machine;  but  still  I 
am  not  enlightened,  not  touched.  I  don't  recognize  men  and 
women;  they  are  puppets  with  holiday  phrases:  and  I  tell 
you  what,  Percy,  these  novelists  make  the  last  mistake  you 
would  suppose  them  guilty  of, —  they  have  not  romance  enough 
in  them  to  paint  the  truths  of  society.  Old  gentlemen  say 
novels  are  bad  teachers  of  life,  because  they  make  it  too  ideal; 
quite  the  reverse :  novels  are  too  trite !  too  superficial !  Their 
very  talk  about  love,  and  the  fuss  they  make  about  it,  show 


GODOLPHIN".  95 

how  shallow  real  romance  is  witli  them;  for  they  say  nothing 
new  ou  it,  and  real  romance  is  forever  striking  out  new- 
thoughts.'  Am  I  not  right,  Percy?  Xo!  life,  be  it  worldly 
as  it  may,  has  a  vast  deal  of  romance  in  it.  Every  one  of  us 
(even  poor  I)  have  a  mine  of  thoughts  and  fancies  and  wishes, 
that  books  are  too  dull  and  commonplace  to  reach :  the  heart 
is  a  romance  in  itself." 

"A  philosophical  romance,  my  Fanny;  full  of  mysteries 
and  conceits  and  refinements,  mixed  up  with  its  deeper  pas- 
sages.    But  how  came  you  so  wise?" 

"Thank  you!"  answered  Fanny,  with  a  profound  courtesy. 
'•The  fact  is  —  though  you,  as  in  duty  bound,  don't  perceive 
it  —  that  I  am  older  than  I  was  when  we  last  met.  I  reflect 
where  I  then  felt.  Besides,  the  stage  fills  our  heads  with  a 
half  sort  of  wisdom,  and  gives  us  that  strange  melange  of 
shrewd  experience  and  romantic  notions  which  is,  in  fact,  the 
real  representation  of  nine  human  hearts  out  of  ten.  Talking 
of  books,  I  want  some  one  to  write  a  novel  which  shall  be  a 
metaphysical  '  Gil  Bias ;  '  which  shall  deal  more  with  the 
mind  than  Le  Sage's  book,  and  less  with  the  actions;  which 
shall  make  its  hero  the  creature  of  the  world,  but  a  different 
creation,  though  equally  true;  which  shall  give  a  faithful 
picture  in  the  character  of  one  man  of  the  aspect  and  the 
effects  of  our  social  system, —  making  that  man  of  a  better 
sort  of  clay  than  the  amusing  lacquey  was,  and  the  produce 
of  a  more  artificial  grade  of  society.  The  book  I  mean  would 
be  a  sadder  one  than  Le  Sage's,  but  equally  faithful  to  life." 

"  And  it  would  have  more  of  romance,  if  I  rightly  understand 
what  you  mean?  " 

''Precisely:  romance  of  idea  as  well  as  incident, —  natural 
romance.  By  the  way,  how  few  know  what  natural  romance 
is :  so  that  you  feel  the  ideas  in  a  book  or  play  are  true  and 
faithful  to  the  characters  they  are  ascribed  to,  why  mind 
whether  the  incidents  are  probable?  Yet  common  readers 
only  go  by  the  incidents ;  as  if  the  incidents  in  three-fourths 
of  Shakspeare's  plays  were  even  ordinarily  possible!  But 
people  have  so  little  nature  in  them  that  they  don't  know 
what  is  natural !  " 


06  GODOLPHIN. 

Thus  Fanny  ran  on,  in  no  very  connected  manner;  string- 
ing together  those  remarks  which,  unless  I  am  mistaken, 
show  how  much  better  an  uneducated,  clever  girl,  whose  very 
nature  is  a  quick  percei^tion  of  art,  can  play  the  critic  .than 
the  pedants  who  assume  the  office. 

But  it  was  only  for  the  moment  that  the  heavy  heart  of 
Godolphin  could  forget  its  load.  It  was  in  vain  that  he 
sought  to  be  amused  while  yet  smarting  under  the  freshness 
of  regret.  A  great  shock  had  been  given  to  his  nature ;  he 
had  loved  against  his  will;  and  as  we  have  seen,  on  his  re- 
turn to  the  Priory,  he  had  even  resolved  on  curing  himself  of 
a  passion  so  unprofitable  and  unwise.  But  the  jealousy  of  a 
night  had  shivered  into  dust  a  prudence  which  never  of  right 
belonged  to  a  very  ardent  and  generous  nature:  that  jealousy 
was  soothed,  allayed;  but  how  fierce,  how  stunning  was  the 
blow  that  succeeded  it!  Constance  had  confessed  love,  and 
yet  had  refused  him  — forever!  Clear  and  noble  as  to  herself 
her  motives  might  seem  in  that  refusal,  it  was  impossible 
that  they  should  appear  in  the  same  light  to  Godolphin. 
Unable  to  penetrate  into  the  effect  which  her  father's  death- 
bed and  her  own  oath  had  produced  on  the  mind  of  Constance; 
how  indissolubly  that  remembrance  had  luiited  itself  with  all 
her  schemes  and  prospects  for  the  future ;  how  marvellously, 
yet  how  naturally,  it  had  converted  worldly  ambition  into  a 
sacred  duty, —  unable,  I  say,  to  comprehend  all  these  various 
and  powerful  and  governing  motives,  Godolphin  beheld  in  her 
refusal  only  the  aversion  to  share  his  slender  income,  and  the 
desire  for  loftier  station.  He  considered,  therefore,  that  sor- 
row was  a  tribute  to  her  unworthy  of  himself;  he  deemed  it  a 
part  of  his  dignity  to  strive  to  forget.  That  hallowed  senti- 
ment which,  in  some  losses  of  the  heart,  makes  it  a  duty  to 
remember,  and  preaches  a  soothing  and  soft  lesson  from  the 
very  text  of  regret,  was  not  for  the  Avrung  and  stricken  soul 
of  Godolphin,  He  only  strove  to  dissipate  his  grief,  and  shut 
out  from  his  mental  sight  the  charmed  vision  of  the  first,  the 
only  woman  he  had  deeply  loved. 

Godolphin  felt,  too,  that  the  sole  impulse  which  could  have 
united  the  fast-expiring  energy  and  enterprise  of  his  youth 


GODOLPHIX.  97 

to  the  ambition  of  life  was  forever  gone.  With  Constance — 
with  the  proud  thoughts  that  belonged  to  her  —  the  aspirings 
after  earthly  honours  were  linked,  and  with  her  were  broken. 
He  felt  his  old  philosophy  —  the  love  of  ease,  the  profound 
contempt  for  fame  —  close  like  the  deep  waters  over  those 
glittering  hosts  for  whose  passage  they  had  been  severed  for 
a  moment,  whelming  the  crested  and  gorgeous  visions  forever 
beneath  the  wave !  Conscious  of  his  talents  —  nay,  swayed  to 
and  fro  by  the  unquiet  stirrings  of  no  common  genius  — 
Godolphin  yet  foresaw  that  he  was  not  henceforth  destined  to 
play  a  shining  part  in  the  crowded  drama  of  life.  His  career 
was  already  closed;  he  might  be  contented,  prosperous,  happy, 
but  never  great.  He  had  seen  enough  of  authors,  and  of  the 
thorns  that  beset  the  paths  of  literature,  to  experience  none 
of  those  delusions  which  cheat  the  blinded  aspirer  into  the 
wilderness  of  publication, —  that  mode  of  obtaining  fame  and 
hatred  to  which  those  who  feel  unfitted  for  more  bustling  con- 
cerns are  impelled.  Write  he  might:  and  he  was  fond  (as 
disappointment  increased  his  propensities  to  dreaming)  of 
brightening  his  solitude  with  the  golden  palaces  and  winged 
shapes  that  lie  glassed  within  the  fancy, —  the  soul's  fairy- 
land. But  the  vision  with  him  was  only  evoked  one  hour  to 
be  destroyed  the  next.  Happy  had  it  been  for  Godolphin, 
and  not  unfortunate  perhaps  for  the  world,  had  he  learned 
at  that  exact  moment  the  true  motive  for  human  action  which 
he  afterwards,  and  too  late,  discovered.  Happy  had  it  been 
for  him  to  have  learned  that  there  is  an  ambition  to  do  good, 
—  an  ambition  to  raise  the  wretched  as  well  as  to  rise. 

Alas !  either  in  letters  or  in  politics,  how  utterly  poor,  bar- 
ren, and  untempting  is  every  path  that  points  upward  to  the 
mockery  of  public  eminence,  when  looked  upon  by  a  soul  that 
has  any  real  elements  of  wise  or  noble,  unless  we  have  an  im- 
pulse within,  which  mortification  chills  not, —  a  reward  with- 
out, which  selfish  defeat  does  not  destroy. 

But,  unblest  by  one  friend  really  wise  or  good,  spoilt  by 
the  world,  soured  by  disappointment,  Godolphin's  very  fac- 
ulties made  him  inert,  and  his  very  wisdom  taught  him  to  be 
useless.     Again  and  again  —  as  the  spider  in  some  cell  where 

7 


98  GODOLPHIX. 

no  winged  insect  ever  wanders  builds  and  rebuilds  his  mesh 
—  the  scheming  heart  of  the  Idealist  v.'as  doomed  to  weave 
net  after  net  for  those  visions  of  the  Lovely  and  the  Perfect 
which  can  never  descend  to  the  gloom}'  regions  wherein  mor- 
tality is  cast.  The  most  common  disease  to  genius  is  n3'm- 
pholepsy, —  the  saddening  for  a  spirit  that  the  world  knows 
not.  Ah,  how  those  outward  disappointments  which  should 
cure  only  feed  the  disease ! 

The  dinner  at  Saville's  was  gay  and  lively,  as  such  enter- 
tainments with  such  participators  usuall}^  are.  If  nothing  in 
the  world  is  more  heavy  than  your  formal  banquet,  nothing, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  more  agreeable  than  those  well-chosen 
laissez-aller  feasts  at  which  the  guests  are  as  happily  selected 
as  the  wines ;  where  there  is  no  form,  no  reserve,  no  effort ; 
and  people  having  met  to  sit  still  for  a  few  hours  are  willing 
to  be  as  pleasant  to  each  other  as  if  they  were  never  to  meet 
again.  Yet  the  conversation  in  all  companies  not  literary 
turns  upon  persons  rather  than  things;  and  your  wits  learn 
their  art  only  in  the  School  for  Scandal. 

"Only  think,  Fanny,"  said  Saville,  "of  Clavers  turning 
beau  in  his  old  age!  He  commenced  with  being  a  jockey; 
then  he  became  an  electioneerer;  then  a  Methodist  parson; 
then  a  builder  of  houses ;  and  now  he  has  dashed  suddenly  up 
to  London,  rushed  into  the  clubs,  mounted  a  wig,  studied  an 
ogle,  and  walks  about  the  Opera  House  swinging  a  cane,  and, 
at  the  age  of  fifty-six,  punching  young  minors  in  the  side,  and 
saying  tremulously,  '  We  young  fellows!  '  " 

"  He  hires  pages  to  come  to  him  in  the  Park  with  three- 
cornered  notes,"  said  Fanny;  "he  opens  each  with  affected 
nonchalance;  looks  full  at  the  bearer,  and  cries  aloud,  '  Tell 
your  mistress  I  cannot  refuse  her; '  then  canters  off,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  persecuted  to  death !  " 

"But  did  you  see  what  an  immense  pair  of  whiskers  Ches- 
ter has  mounted?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  a  Mr.  de  Lacy;  "A saj^s  he  has  cul- 
tivated them  in  order  to  '  plant  out '  his  ugliness." 

"But  vy  you  no  talk.  Monsieur  de  Dauphin?"  said  the 
Linettini  gently,  turning  to  Percy;   "you  ver  silent." 


GODOLPHIN.  99 

"Unhappily,  I  have  been  so  long  out  of  town,  that  these 
anecdotes  of  the  day  are  caviare  to  me." 

"But  so,"  cried  Saville,  "would  a  volume  of  French  Me- 
moirs be  to  any  one  that  took  ic  up  for  the  first  time ;  yet  the 
French  Memoirs  amuse  one  exactly  as  much  as  if  one  had 
lived  with  the  persons  written  of.  Now  that  ought  to  be  the 
case  with  conversations  upon  persons.  I  flatter  myself,  Fanny, 
that  you  and  I  hit  off  characters  so  well  by  a  word  or  two, 
that  no  one  who  hears  us  wants  to  know  anything  more  about 
them." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Godolphin;  "and  that  is  the  reason 
you  never  talk  of  yourselves." 

"Bah!  Apropos  of  egoism,  did  you  meet  Jack  Barabel  in 
Rome?  " 

"Yes,  writing  his  travels.  '  Pray,'  said  he  to  me  (seizing 
me  by  the  button)  in  the  Colisseum,  '  what  do  you  think  is  the 
highest  order  of  literary  composition?  '  '  Why,  an  epic,  I 
fancy,'  said  I;  'or  perhaps  a  tragedy,  or  a  great  history,  or  a 
novel  like  "Don  Quixote."  '  '  Pooh!  '  quoth  Barabel,  looking 
important,  '  there  's  nothing  so  high  in  literature  as  a  good 
book  of  travels ; '  then  sinking  his  voice  into  a  whisper  and 
laying  his  finger  wisely  on  his  nose,  he  hissed  out,  '  /  have  a 
quarto,  sir,  in  the  press !  '  " 

"Ha,  ha!  "  laughed  Stracey,  the  old  wit,  picking  his  teeth, 
and  speaking  for  tlie  first  time;  "if  you  tell  Barabel  you  have 
seen  a  handsome  woman,  he  says,  mysteriously  frowning, 
'Handsome,  sir!  has  she  travelled?  —  answer  me  that!  '  " 

"But  have  you  seen  Paulton's  new  equipage?  Brown  car- 
riage, brown  liveries,  brown  harness,  brown  horses,  while 
Paulton  and  his  wife  sit  within  dressed  in  brown  cap-a-pie. 
The  best  of  it  is  that  Paulton  went  to  his  coachmaker,  to  or- 
der his  carriage,  saying,  '  Mr.  Houlditch,  I  am  growing  old, — 
too  old  to  be  eccentric  any  longer;  I  must  have  something  re- 
markably plain;  '  and  to  this  hour  Paulton  goes  brown-in^j; 
about  the  town,  crying  out  to  every  one,  'Nothing  like  sim- 
plicity, believe  me.' " 

"He  discharged  his  coachman  for  wearing  white  gloves 
instead  of  brown,"  said  Stracey.     "  *  What  do  you  mean,  sir,' 


100  GODOLPHIN. 

cried  he,  *  with  your  d — d  showy  vulgarities?  Don't  you 
see  me  toiling  my  soul  out  to  be  plain  and  quiet,  and  you 
must  spoil  all,  by  not  being  brown  enough !  '  " 

"Ah,  Godolphin,  you  seem  pensive,"  whispered  Fanny; 
"yet  we  are  tolerably  amusing,  too." 

"My  dear  Fanny,"  answered  Godolphin,  rousing  himself, 
"  the  dialogue  is  gay,  the  actors  know  their  parts,  the  lights 
are  brilliant;  but  —  the  scene  —  the  scene  cannot  shift  for 
me!  Call  it  what  you  will,  I  am  not  deceived.  I  see  the 
paint  and  the  canvas,  but  —  and  yet,  away  these  thoughts ! 
Shall  I  fill  your  glass,  Fanny?  " 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

AN    EVENT   OF   GREAT   IMPORTANCE   TO    THE    PRINCIPAL    ACTORS 

IN    THIS     HISTORY.  GODOLPHIN    A    SECOND    TIME    LEAVES 

ENGLAND. 

Godolphin  was  welcomed  with  enthusiasm  by  the  London 
world.  His  graces,  his  manners,  his  genius,  his  hon  ton,  and 
his  bonnes  fortunes  were  the  theme  of  every  society.  Verses 
imputed  to  him  —  some  erroneously,  some  truly  —  were  mys- 
teriously circulated  from  hand  to  hand;  and  every  one  envied 
the  fair  inspirers  to  whom  they  were  supposed  to  be  addressed. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  reiterate  the  wearisome  echo  of 
novelists  who  descant  on  fashion  and  term  it  life.  No  de- 
scription of  rose-coloured  curtains  and  buhl  cabinets;  no 
miniature  paintings  of  boudoirs  and  salons;  no  recital  of  con- 
ventional insipidities,  interlarded  with  affected  criticisms, 
and  honoured  by  the  name  of  dramatic  dialogue,  shall  lend 
their  fascination  to  these  pages.  Far  other  and  far  deeper 
aims  are  mine  in  stooping  to  delineate  the  customs  and  springs 
of  polite  life.  The  reader  must  give  himself  wholly  up  to 
me;  he  must  prepare  to  go  with  me  through  the  grave  as 
through  the  gay,  and  unresistingly  to  thread  the  dark  and 


GODOLPHIN.  101 

subtle  interest  which  alone  I  can  impart  to  these  memoirs, 
or  —  let  him  close  the  book  at  once.  I  promise  him  novelty ; 
but  it  is  not,  when  duly  scanned,  a  novelty  of  a  light  and 
frivolous  cast. 

But  throughout  that  routine  of  dissipation  in  which  he 
chased  the  phantom  Forgetfulness,  Godolphiu  sighed  for  the 
time  he  had  iixed  on  for  leaving  the  scenes  in  which  it  was 
pursued.  Of  Constance's  present  existence  he  heard  noth- 
ing; of  her  former  triumphs  and  conquests  he  heard  every- 
where. And  when  did  he  ever  meet  one  face,  however  fair, 
which  could  awaken  a  single  thought  of  admiration  while 
hers  was  yet  all  faithfully  glassed  in  his  remembrance?  I 
know  nothing  that  so  utterly  converts  society  into  "the  gal- 
lery of  pictures"  as  the  recollection  of  one  loved  and  lost. 
That  recollection  has  but  two  cures, —  Time  and  the  hermi- 
tage. Foreigners  impute  to  us  the  turn  for  sentiment;  alas! 
there  are  no  people  who  have  it  less.  We  seek  forever  after 
amusement;  and  there  is  not  one  popular  prosebook  in  our 
language  in  which  the  more  tender  and  yearning  secrets  of 
the  heart  form  the  subject-matter.  The  "Corinne"  and  the 
"Julie"  weary  us,  or  we  turn  them  into  sorry  jests! 

One  evening,  a  little  before  his  departure  from  England  — 
that  a  lingering  and  vague  hope,  of  which  Constance  was  the 
object,  had  considerably  protracted  beyond  the  allotted  time 
—  Godolphin  was  at  a  house  in  which  the  hostess  was  a  rela- 
tion to  Lord  Erpingham. 

"Have  you  heard,"  asked  Lady  G ,  "that  my  cousin 

Erpingham  is  to  be  married?" 

"No,  indeed;  to  whom?"  said  Godolphin,  eagerly. 

"To  Miss  Vernon." 

Sudden  as  was  the  shock,  Godolphin  heard,  and  changed 
neither  hue  nor  muscle. 

"Are  you  certain  of  this?  "  asked  a  lady  present. 

"Quite:  Lady  Erpingham  is  my  authority;  1  received  the 
news  from  herself  this  very  day." 

"And  does  she  seem  pleased  with  the  match?  " 

"  Why,  I  can  scarcely  say,  for  the  letter  contradicts  itself 
in  every  passage.     Now,  she  congratulates  herself  on  having 


102  GODOLPHIN. 

so  charming  a  daughter-iu-law ;  now,  she  suddenly  stops  short 
to  observe  what  a  pity  it  is  that  young  men  should  be  so  pre- 
cipitate !  Now,  she  says  what  a  great  match  it  will  be  for  her 
dear  ward !  and  now,  what  a  happy  one  it  will  be  for  Erping- 
ham!  In  short,  she  does  not  know  whether  to  be  pleased  or 
vexed;  and  that,  pour  dire  vrai,  is  my  case  also." 

"Why,  indeed,"  observed  the  former  speaker,  "Miss  Ver- 
non has  played  her  cards  well.  Lord  Erpingham  would  have 
been  a  great  match  in  himself,  with  his  person  and  reputation. 
Ah,  she  was  always  an  ambitious  girl."' 

"And  a  proud  one,"  said  Lady  G .     "Well,  I  suppose 

Erpingham  House  will  be  the  rendezvous  to  all  the  blues  and 
wits  and  savans.    Miss  Vernon  is  another  Aspasia,  I  hear." 

"I  hate  girls  who  are  so  designing,"  said  the  lady  who 
spoke  before,  and  had  only  one  daughter,  very  ugly,  who,  at 
the  age  of  thirty-five,  was  about  to  accept  her  first  offer,  and 
marry  a  younger  son  in  the  Guards.  "I  think  she  's  rather 
vulgar;  for  my  part,  I  doubt  if  —  I  shall  patronize  her." 

"Well,  what  do  yotc  think  of  it,  Mr.  Godolphin?  —  you 
have  seen  Miss  Vernon." 

Godolphin  was  gone. 

It  was  about  ten  days  after  this  conversation  that  Godol- 
phin, waiting  at  a  hotel  in  Dover  the  hour  at  which  the 
packet  set  sail  for  Calais,  took  up  the  "Morning  Post;" 
and  the  first  passage  that  met  his  eye  was  the  one  which  I 
transcribe :  — 

"  Marriage  in  High  Life.  —  On  Thursday  last,  at  Wendover  Castle, 
the  Earl  of  Erpingham,  to  Constance,  only  daughter  of  the  celebrated 
Mr.  Vernon.     The  bride  was  dressed,  etc." 

And  then  followed  the  trite,  yet  pompous  pageantry  of 
words,  the  sounding  nothings,  with  which  ladies  who  become 
countesses  are  knelled  into  marriage. 

"The  dream  is  over!"  said  Godolphin  mournfully,  as  the 
paper  fell  to  the  ground;  and  burying  his  face  within  his 
hands,  he  remained  motionless  till  they  came  to  announce  the 
moment  of  departure. 

And  thus  Percy  Godolphin  left,  for  the  second  time,  his 


GODOLPHIN.  103 

native  shores.  When  we  return  to  him,  what  changes  will 
the  feelings  now  awakened  within  him  have  worked  in  his 
character!  The  drops  that  trickle  within  the  cavern  harden, 
yet  brighten  into  spars  as  they  indurate.  Nothing  is  more 
polished,  nothing  more  cold,  than  that  wisdom  which  is  the 
work  of  former  tears,  of  former  passions,  and  is  formed 
within  a  musing  and  solitary  mind ! 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE  BRIDE  ALONE.  A  DIALOGUE  POLITICAL  AND  MATRIMO- 
NIAL. —  Constance's  genius  for  diplomacy.  —  the  char- 
acter  OF    her    assemblies.  HER    CONQUEST    OVER    LADY 

DELTILLE. 

"Bring  me  that  book,  place  that  table  nearer,  and  leave 
me." 

The  abigail  obeyed  the  orders,  and  the  young  Countess  of 
Erpingham  was  alone.  Alone!  what  a  word  for  a  young  and 
beautiful  bride  in  the  first  months  of  her  marriage !  Alone ! 
and  in  the  heart  of  that  mighty  city  in  which  rank  and 
wealth  —  and  they  were  hers  —  are  the  idols  adored  by 
millions. 

It  was  a  room  fancifully  and  splendidly  decorated.  Flowers 
and  perfumes  were,  however,  its  chief  luxury;  and  from  the 
open  window  you  might  see  the  trees  in  the  old  Mall  deepen- 
ing into  the  rich  verdure  of  June.  That  haunt,  too  —  a  clas- 
sical haunt  for  London  —  was  at  the  hour  I  speak  of  full  of 
gay  and  idle  life;  and  there  was  something  fresh  and  joyous 
in  the  air,  the  sun,  and  the  crowd  of  foot  and  horse  that 
swept  below. 

Was  the  glory  gone  from  your  brow,  Constance,  or  the 
proud  gladness  from  your  eye?  Alas!  are  not  the  blessings 
of  the  world  like  the  enchanted  bullets, —  that  which  pierces 
our  heart  is  united  with  the  gift  which  our  heart  desired ! 


104  GODOLPHIN. 

Lord  Erpingham  entered  the  room.  "Well,  Constance," 
said  he,  "shall  you  ride  on  horseback  to-day?" 

"I  think  not." 

"  Then  I  wish  you  would  call  on  Lady  Delville.  You.  see 
Delville  is  of  my  party :  we  sit  together.  You  should  be  very 
civil  to  her,  and  I  did  not  think  you  were  so  the  other 
night." 

"You  wish  Lady  Delville  to  support  your  political  interest; 
and,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  think  her  at  present  lukewarm?  " 

"Precisely." 

"  Then,  my  dear  lord,  will  you  place  confidence  in  my  dis- 
cretion? I  promise  you  if  you  will  leave  me  undisturbed  in 
my  own  plans,  that  Lady  Delville  shall  be  the  most  devoted 
of  your  party  before  the  season  is  half  over;  but  then,  the 
means  will  not  be  those  you  advise." 

"Why,  T  advise  none." 

"Yes,  civility, —  a  very  poor  policy." 

"D — n  it,  Constance!  why,  you  would  not  frown  a  great 
person  like  Lady  Delville  into  affection  for  us?  " 

"Leave  it  to  me." 

"Nonsense!  " 

"My  dear  lord,  only  try.  Three  months  is  all  I  ask. 
You  will  leave  the  management  of  politics  to  me  ever  after- 
wards! I  was  born  a  schemer.  Am  I  not  John  Vernon's 
daughter?  " 

"Well,  well,  do  as  you  will,"  said  Lord  Erpingham;  "but 
I  see  how  it  will  end.  However,  you  will  call  on  Lady 
Delville  to-day?" 

"If  you  wish  it,  certainly." 

"I  do." 

Lady  Delville  was  a  proud,  great  lady ;  not  very  much  liked 
and  not  so  often  invited  by  her  equals  as  if  she  had  been 
agreeable  and  a  flirt. 

Constance  knew  with  whom  she  had  to  treat.  She  called 
on  Lad}'  Delville  that  day.  Lady  Delville  was  at  home;  a 
pretty  and  popular  Mrs.  Trevor  was  with  her. 

Lady  Delville  received  her  coolly, —  Constance  was  haugh- 
tiness itself. 


GODOLPHIX.  105 

"You  go  to  the  Duchess  of  Daubigny's  to-night?"  said 
Lady  Delville,  in  the  course  of  their  broken  conversation. 

"Indeed  I  do  not.  I  like  agreeable  society.  It  shall  be 
my  object  to  form  a  circle  that  not  one  displeasing  person 
shall  obtain  access  to.  Will  you  assist  me,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Trevor?"  —  and  Constance  turned,  with  her  softest  smile,  to 
the  lady  she  addressed. 

Mrs.  Trevor  was  flattered ;  Lady  Delville  drew  herself  up. 

"It  is  a  small  party  at  the  duchess's,"  said  the  latter; 
"merely  to  meet  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  C ." 

"  Ah,  few  people  are  capable  of  giving  a  suitable  entertain- 
ment to  the  royal  family." 

"But  surely  none  more  so  than  the  Duchess  of  Daubigny, — 
her  house  so  large,  her  rank  so  great !  " 

"  These  are  but  poor  ingredients  towards  the  forming  of  au 
agreeable  party, "  said  Constance,  coldly.  "  The  mistake  made 
by  common  minds  is  to  suppose  titles  the  only  rank.  Eoyal 
dukes  love,  above  all  other  persons,  to  be  amused ;  and  amuse- 
ment is  the  last  thing  generally  provided  for  them." 

The  conversation  fell  into  other  channels.  Constance  rose 
to  depart.  She  warmly  pressed  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Trevor, 
whom  she  had  only  seen  once  before. 

"A  few  persons  come  to  me  to-morrow  evening,"  said  she; 
^^  do  waive  ceremony,  and  join  us.  I  can  promise  you  that 
not  one  disagreeable  person  shall  be  present,  and  that  the 
Duchess  of  Daubigny  shall  write  for  an  invitation  and  be 
refused." 

Mrs.  Trevor  accepted  the  invitation. 

Lady  Delville  was  enraged  beyond  measure.  Never  was 
female  tongue  more  bitter  than  hers  at  the  expense  of  that 
insolent  Lady  Erpingham!  Yet  Lady  Delville  was  secretly 
in  grief;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  hurt  at  not 
having  been  asked  to  a  party:  and  being  hurt  because  she 
was  not  going,  she  longed  most  eagerly  to  go. 

The  next  evening  came.  Erpingham  House  was  not  large, 
but  it  was  well  adapted  to  the  description  of  assembly  its 
beautiful  owner  had  invited.  Statues,  busts,  pictures,  books, 
scattered  or  arranged  about  the  apartments,  furnished  matter 


106  GODOLPHIN. 

for  intellectual  couversatiou,  or  gave  at  least  an  intellectual 
air  to  the  meeting. 

About  a  Lundred  persons  were  present.  They  were  selected 
from  the  most  distinguished  ornaments  of  the  time, —  musi- 
cians, painters,  authors,  orators,  fine  gentlemen,  dukes, 
princes,  and  beauties.  One  thing,  however,  was  impera- 
tively necessary  in  order  to  admit  them, —  the  profession  of 
liberal  opinions.  No  Tory,  however  wise,  eloquent,  or  beau- 
tiful, could,  that  evening,  have  obtained  the  sesame  to  those 
apartments. 

Constance  never  seemed  more  lovely,  and  never  before  was 
she  so  winning.  The  coldness  and  the  arrogance  of  her  man- 
ner had  wholly  vanished.  To  every  one  she  spoke;  and  to 
every  one  her  voice,  her  manner,  were  kind,  cordial,  familiar, 
but  familiar  with  a  soft  dignity  that  heightened  the  charm. 
Ambitious  not  only  to  please  but  to  dazzle,  she  breathed  into 
her  conversation  all  the  grace  and  culture  of  her  mind.  They 
who  admired  her  the  most  were  the  most  accomplished 
themselves. 

Now  exchanging  with  foreign  nobles  that  brilliant  trifling 
of  the  world  in  which  there  is  often  so  much  penetration, 
wisdom,  and  research  into  character;  now  with  a  kindling 
eye  and  animated  cheek  commenting,  with  poets  and  critics, 
on  literature  and  the  arts;  now,  in  a  more  remote  and  quiet 
corner,  seriously  discussing,  with  hoary  politicians,  those 
affairs  in  which  even  they  allowed  her  shrewdness  and  her 
grasp  of  intellect;  and  combining  with  every  grace  and  every 
accomplishment  a  rare  and  dazzling  order  of  beauty, —  we 
may  readily  imagine  the  sensation  she  created,  and  the  sud- 
den and  novel  zest  which  so  splendid  an  Armida  must  have 
given  to  the  tameness  of  society. 

The  whole  of  the  next  week,  the  party  at  Erpingham  House 
was  the  theme  of  every  conversation.  Each  person  who  had 
been  there  had  met  the  lion  he  had  been  most  anxious  to  see. 
The  beauty  had  conversed  with  the  poet,  who  had  charmed 
her;  the  young  debutant  in  science  had  paid  homage  to  the 
great  professor  of  its  loftiest  mysteries;  the  statesman  had 
thanked  the  author  who  had  defended  his  measures ;  the  au- 


GODOLPHIN.  107 

thor  had  been  delighted  with  the  compliment  of  the  states- 
man.  Every  one  then  agreed  that,  while  the  highest  rank  in 
the  kingdom  had  been  there,  rank  had  been  the  least  attrac- 
tion; and  those  who  before  had  found  Constance  repellent 
were  the  very  persons  who  now  expatiated  with  the  greatest 
rapture  on  the  sweetness  of  her  manners.  Then,  too,  every 
one  who  had  been  admitted  to  the  coterie  dwelt  on  the  rarity 
of  the  admission;  and  thus,  all  the  world  were  dying  for  an 
introduction  to  Erpingham  House, —  partly,  because  it  was 
agreeable;  principally,  because  it  was  difficult. 

It  soon  became  a  compliment  to  the  understanding  to  say 
of  a  person,  "He  goes  to  Lady  Erpingham's!  "  They  who 
valued  themselves  on  their  understandings  moved  heaven  and 
earth  to  become  popular  with  the  beautiful  countess.  Lady 
Delville  was  not  asked ;  Lady  Delville  was  furious :  she  af- 
fected disdain,  but  no  one  gave  her  credit  for  it.  Lord 
Erpingham  teazed  Constance  on  this  point. 

"You  see  I  was  right,  for  you  have  afl'ronted  Lady  Del- 
ville. She  has  made  Delville  look  coolly  on  me;  in  a  few 
weeks  he  will  be  a  Tory;  think  of  that.  Lady  Erpingham!  " 

"One  month  more,"  answered  Constance,  with  a  smile, 
"and  you  shall  see," 

One  night,  Lady  Delville  and  Lady  Erpingham  met  at  a 
large  party.  The  latter  seated  herself  by  her  haughty  enemy; 
not  seeming  to  heed  Lady  Delville's  coolness,  Constance  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  her.  She  dwelt  upon  books, 
pictures,  music :  her  manner  was  animated,  and  her  wit  play- 
ful. Pleased,  in  spite  of  herself.  Lady  Delville  warmed 
from  her  reserve. 

"My  dear  Lady  Delville," said  Constance,  suddenly  turning 
her  bright  countenance  on  the  countess  with  an  expression  of 
delighted  surprise,  "will  you  forgive  me?  —  I  never  dreamed 
before  that  you  were  so  charming  a  person!  I  never  conceal 
my  sentiments;  and  I  own  with  regret  and  shame  that,  till 
this  moment,  I  had  never  seen  in  your  mind  —  whatever  I 
might  in  your  person  —  those  claims  to  admiration  which 
were  constantly  dinned  into  my  ear." 

Lady  Delville  actually  coloured. 


108  GODOLPHIN. 

"Pray,"  continued  Constance,  "condescend  to  permit  me 
to  a  nearer  acquaintance.  Will  you  dine  with  us  on  Thurs- 
day?—  we  shall  have  only  nine  persons  beside  yourself;  but 
they  are  the  nine  persons  whom  I  most  esteem  and  admire." 

Lady  Delville  accepted  the  invitation.  From  that  hour, 
Lady  Delville  —  who  had  at  first  resented,  from  the  deepest 
recess  of  her  heart,  Constance  Vernon's  accession  to  rank  and 
wealth ;  who,  had  Constance  deferred  to  her  early  acquaint- 
ance, would  have  always  found  something  in  her  she  could 
have  affected  to  despise,— from  that  hour,  Lady  Delville  was 
the  warmest  advocate,  and  a  little  time  after,  the  sincerest 
follower,  of  the  youthful  countess. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AN    INSIGHT    INTO    THE   REAL    GRANDE   MONDE,  BEING    A 

SEARCH    BEHIND    THE   ROSE-COLOURED    CURTAINS. 

The  time  we  now  speak  of  was  the  most  brilliant  the  Eng- 
lish world,  during  the  last  half  century,  has  known.  Lord 
Byron  was  in  his  brief  and  dazzling  zenith ;  De  Stael  was  in 
London ;  the  Peace  had  turned  the  attention  of  rich  idlers  to 
social  enjoyment  and  to  letters.  There  was  an  excitement 
and  a  brilliancy  and  a  spirituality  about  our  circles,  which 
we  do  not  recognize  now.  Never  had  a  young  and  ambitious 
woman  — a  beauty  and  a  genius  — a  finer  moment  for  the 
commencement  of  her  power.  It  was  Constance's  early  and 
bold  resolution  to  push  to  the  utmost  — even  to  exaggera- 
tion—a  power  existing  in  all  polished  states,  but  now  mostly 
in  this,— the  power  of  fashion!  This  mysterious  and  subtle 
engine  she  was  eminently  skilled  to  move  according  to  her 
will.  Her  intuitive  penetration  into  character,  her  tact,  and 
her  grace  were  exactly  the  talents  Fashion  most  demands ;  and 
they  were  at  present  devoted  only  to  that  sphere.  The  rude- 
ness that  she  mingled,  at  times,  with  the  bewitching  softness 


GODOLPHIN.  109 

and  ease  of  manner  she  could  command  at  others  increased  the 
effect  of  her  power.  It  is  much  to  intimidate  as  well  as  to 
win.  And  her  rudeness  in  a  very  little  while  grew  popular; 
for  it  was  never  exercised  but  on  those  whom  the  world 
loves  to  see  humbled.  Modest  merit  in  any  rank,  and 
even  insolence,  if  accompanied  with  merit,  were  always 
safe  from  her  satire.  It  was  the  hauteur  of  foolish  duch- 
esses or  purse-proud  roturiers  that  she  loved,  and  scrupled 
not,  to  abase. 

And  the  independence  of  her  character  was  mixed  with 
extraordinary  sweetness  of  temper.  Constance  could  not  be 
in  a  passion :  it  was  oat  of  her  nature.  If  she  was  stung,  she 
could  utter  a  sarcasm ;  but  she  could  not  frown  or  raise  her 
voice.  There  was  that  magic  in  her,  that  she  was  always 
feminine.  She  did  not  stare  young  men  out  of  countenance; 
she  never  addressed  them  by  their  Christian  names;  she 
never  flirted,  never  coquetted :  the  bloom  and  flush  of  modesty 
was  yet  all  virgin  upon  her  youth.  She,  the  founder  of  a  new 
dynasty,  avoided  what  her  successors  and  contemporaries  have 
deemed  it  necessary  to  incur.  She  was  the  leader  of  fashion; 
but  —  it  is  a  miraculous  union  —  she  was  respectable ! 

At  this  period,  some  new  dances  were  brought  into  Eng- 
land. These  dances  found  much  favour  in  the  eyes  of  several 
great  ladies  young  enough  to  dance  them.  They  met  at  each 
other's  houses  in  the  morning  to  practise  the  steps.  Among 
these  was  Lady  Erpingham;  her  house  became  the  favourite 
rendezvous. 

The  young  Marquess  of  Dartington  was  one  of  the  little' 
knot.  Celebrated  for  his  great  fortune,  his  personal  beauty, 
and  his  general  success,  he  resolved  to  fall  in  love  with  Lady 
Erpingham.  He  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  her;  he  joined 
her  in  the  morning  in  her  rides,  in  the  evening  in  her  gaye- 
ties.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  her?  —  yes!  Did  he  love 
her?  —  not  the  least.  But  he  was  excessively  idle!  —  what 
else  could  he  do? 

Constance  early  saw  the  attentions  and  designs  of  Lord 
Dartington.  There  is  one  difficulty  in  repressing  advances  in 
great  society, —  one  so  easily  becomes  ridiculous  by  being  a 


110  GODOLPHIX. 

prude.  But  Constance  dismissed  Lord  Partington  with  great 
dexterity.     This  was  the  occasion. 

One  of  the  apartments  in  Erpingham  House  communicated 
with  a  conservatory.  In  this  conservatory  Constance "  was 
alone  one  morning,  when  Lord  Dartington,  who  had  entered 
the  house  with  Lord  Erpingham,  joined  her.  He  was  not  a 
man  who  could  ever  become  sentimental;  he  was  rather  the 
gay  lover,  —  rather  the  Don  Gaolor  than  the  Amadis ;  but 
he  was  a  little  abashed  before  Constance.  He  trusted,  how- 
ever, to  his  fine  eyes  and  his  good  complexion;  plucked  up 
courage ;  and,  picking  a  flower  from  the  same  plant  Constance 
was  tending,  said, — • 

"I  believe  there  is  a  custom  in  some  part  of  the  world  to 
express  love  by  flowers.  May  I,  dear  Lady  Erpingham,  trust 
to  this  flower  to  express  what  I  dare  not  utter?  " 

Constance  did  not  blush  nor  look  confused,  as  Lord  Dart- 
ington had  hoped  and  expected.  One  who  had  been  loved  by 
Godolphin  was  not  likely  to  feel  much  agitation  at  the  gal- 
lantry of  Lord  Dartington;  but  she  looked  gravely  in  his  face, 
paused  a  little  before  she  answered,  and  then  said,  with  a 
smile  that  abashed  the  suitor  more  than  severity  could  possi- 
bly have  done, — ■ 

"My  dear  Lord  Dartington,  do  not  let  us  mistake  each 
other.  I  live  in  the  world  like  other  women,  but  I  am  not 
altogether  like  them.  Not  another  word  of  gallantry  to  me 
alone,  as  you  value  my  friendship.  In  a  crowded  room,  pay 
me  as  many  compliments  as  you  like.  It  will  flatter  my  van- 
ity to  have  you  in  my  train.  And  now,  just  do  me  the  favour 
to  take  these  scissors  and  cut  the  dead  leaves  off  that  plant." 

Lord  Dartington,  to  use  a  common  phrase,  *' hummed  and 
hawed."  He  looked,  too,  a  little  angry.  An  artful  and 
shrewd  politician,  it  was  not  Constance's  wish  to  cool  the 
devotion,  though  she  might  the  attachment,  of  a  single  mem- 
ber of  her  husband's  party.  With  a  kind  look  —  but  a  look 
so  superior,  so  queenlike,  so  free  from  the  petty  and  coquet- 
tish condescension  of  the  sex,  that  the  gay  lord  wondered 
from  that  hour  how  he  could  ever  have  dreamed  of  Constance 
as  of  certain  other  ladies  —  she  stretched  her  hand  to  him. 


GODOLPHIX.  Ill 

"We  are  friends,  Lord  Dartington?  —  and  now  we  know 
each  other,  we  shall  be  so  always." 

Lord  Dartington  bowed  confusedly  over  the  beautiful  hand 
he  touched;  and  Constance,  walking  into  the  drawing-room, 
sent  for  Lord  Erpingham  on  business.  Dartington  took  his 
leav6. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    MARRIED    STATE    OF    COXSTAXCE. 

Constance,  Countess  of  Erpingham,  was  young,  rich,  lovely 
as  a  dream,  worshipped  as  a  goddess.  Was  she  happy;  and 
was  her  whole  heart  occupied  with  the  trifles  that  surrounded 
her? 

Deep  within  her  memory  was  buried  one  fatal  image  that 
she  could  not  exorcise.  The  reproaching  and  mournful  coun- 
tenance of  Godolphin  rose  before  her  at  all  times  and  seasons. 
The  charm  of  his  presence  no  other  human  being  could  renew. 
His  eloquent  and  noble  features,  living  and  glorious  with 
genius  and  with  passion;  his  sweet  deep  voice;  his  conversa- 
tion, so  rich  with  mind  and  knowledge,  and  the  subtle  deli- 
cacy with  which  he  applied  its  graces  to  some  sentiment 
dedicated  to  her  (delicious  flattery,  of  all  flatteries  the  most 
attractive  to  a  sensitive  and  intellectual  woman!), —  these 
occurred  to  her  again  and  again,  and  rendered  all  she  saw 
around  her  flat,  wearisome,  insipid.  Nor  was  this  deep-seated 
and  tender  weakness  the  only  serpent  —  if  I  may  use  so  con- 
fused a  metaphor  —  in  the  roses  of  her  lot. 

And  here  I  invoke  the  reader's  graver  attention.  The  fate 
of  women  in  all  the  more  polished  circles  of  society  is  emi- 
nently unnatural  and  unhappy.  The  peasant  and  his  dame 
are  on  terms  of  equality, —  equality  even  of  ambition;  no 
career  is  open  to  one  and  shut  to  the  other :  equality  even  of 
hardship,  and  hardship  is  employment;  no  labour  occupies 
the  whole  energies  of  the  man  but  leaves  those  of  the  woman 


112  GODOLPHIN. 

unemployed.     Is  this  the  case  with  the  wives  in  a  higher 

station, the  wives  of  the  lawyer,  the  merchant,  the  senator, 

the  noble?  There,  the  men  have  their  occupations;  and  the 
women  (unless,  like  poor  Fanny,  work-bags  and  parrots-  can 
employ  them)  none.  They  are  idle.  They  employ  the  imagi- 
nation and  the  heart.  They  fall  in  love  and  are  wretched; 
or  they  remain  virtuous,  and  are  either  wearied  by  an  eternal 
monotony  or  they  fritter  away  intellect,  mind,  character,  in 
the  minutest  frivolities,— frivolities  being  their  only  refuge 
from  stagnation.  Yes,  there  is  one  very  curious  curse  for 
the  sex  which  men  don't  consider!  Once  married,  the  more 
aspiring  of  them  have  no  real  scope  for  ambition ;  the  ambi- 
tion gnaws  away  their  content,  and  never  finds  elsewhere 
wherewithal  to  feed  on. 

This  was  Constance's  especial  misfortune.  Her  lofty  and 
restless  and  soaring  spirit  pined  for  a  sphere  of  action,  and 
ballrooms  and  boudoirs  met  it  on  every  side.  One  hope  she 
did  indeed  cherish;  that  hope  was  the  source  of  her  intrigu- 
ings  and  schemes,  of  her  care  for  seeming  trifles,  the  waste 
of  her  energies  on  seeming  frivolities.  This  hope,  this  ob- 
ject, was  to  diminish,  to  crush,  not  only  the  party  which  had 
forsaken  her  father,  but  the  power  of  that  order  to  which  she 
belonged  herself;  which  she  had  entered  only  to  humble. 
But  this  hope  was  a  distant  and  chill  vision.  She  was  too 
rational  to  anticipate  an  early  and  effectual  change  in  our 
social  state,  and  too  rich  in  the  treasures  of  mind  to  be  the 
creature  of  one  idea.  Satiety  —  the  common  curse  of  the 
great  —  crept  over  her  day  by  day.  The  powers  within  her 
lay  stagnant,  the  keen  intellect  rusted  in  its  sheath. 

"How  is  it,"  said  she  to  the  beautiful  Countess  of  , 

"that  you  seem  always  so  gay  and  so  animated;  that  with  all 
your  vivacity  and  tenderness,  you  are  never  at  a  loss  for  occu- 
pation?    You  never  seem  weary  —  ennur/4e  —  why  is  this?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  pretty  countess,  archly;  "I 
change  my  lovers  every  month."  Constance  blushed,  and 
asked  no  more. 

Many  women  in  her  state,  influenced  by  contagious  exam- 
ple, wearied  by  a  life  in  which  the  heart  had  no  share ;  with- 


GODOLPHIX.  113 

out  cliilclren,  without  a  guide;  assailed  and  wooed  on  all 
sides,  in  all  shapes, —  many  women  might  have  ventured,  if 
not  into  love,  at  least  into  coquetry.  But  Constance  re- 
mained as  bright  and  cold  as  ever,— "the  unsunned  snow!  " 
It  might  be,  indeed,  that  the  memory  of  Godolphin  preserved 
her  safe  from  all  lesser  dangers.  The  asbestos  once  conquered 
by  fire  can  never  be  consumed  by  it;  but  there  was  also  an- 
other cause  in  Constance's  very  nature, —  it  was  pride! 

Oh,  if  men  could  but  dream  of  what  a  proud  woman  en- 
dures in  those  caresses  Avliich  humble  her,  they  would  not 
wonder  why  proud  women  are  so  difficult  to  subdue.  This 
is  a  matter  on  which  we  all  ponder  much,  but  we  dare  not 
write  honestly  upon  it.  But  imagine  a  young,  haughty,  guile- 
less beauty,  married  to  a  man  whom  she  neither  loves  nor 
honours;  and  so  far  from  that  want  of  love  rendering  her 
likely  to  fall  hereafter,  it  is  more  probable  that  it  will  make 
her  recoil  from  the  very  name  of  love. 

About  this  time  the  Dowager  Lady  Erpingham  died, —  an 
event  sincerely  mourned  by  Constance,  and  which  broke  the 
strongest  tie  that  united  the  young  countess  to  her  lord. 
Lord  Erpingham  and  Constance,  indeed,  now  saw  but  little  of 
each  other.  Like  most  men  six  feet  high,  with  large  black 
whiskers,  the  earl  was  vain  of  his  person;  and  like  most  rich 
noblemen,  he  found  plenty  of  ladies  who  assured  him  he  was 
irresistible.  He  had  soon  grown  angry  at  the  unadmiring  and 
calm  urbanity  of  Constance;  and,  living  a  great  deal  with 
single  men,  he  formed  liaisons  of  the  same  order  as  they  do. 
He  was,  however,  sensible  that  he  had  been  fortunate  in  the 
choice  of  a  wife.  His  political  importance  the  wisdom  of 
Constance  had  quadrupled,  at  the  least;  his  house  she  had 
rendered  the  most  brilliant  in  London,  and  his  name  the  most 
courted  in  the  lists  of  the  peerage.  Though  munificent,  she 
was  not  extravagant;  though  a  beauty,  she  did  not  intrigue; 
neither,  though  his  inconstancy  was  open,  did  she  appear 
jealous;  nor,  whatever  the  errors  of  his  conduct,  did  she  ever 
disregard  his  interest,  disobey  his  wishes,  or  waver  from  the 
smooth  and  continuous  sweetness  of  her  temper.  Of  such  a 
wife  Lord  Erpingham  could  not  complain :  he  esteemed  her, 

8 


114  GODOLPHIN. 

praised  her,  asked  her  advice,  and  stood  a  little  in  awe  of 
her. 

Ah,  Constance!  had  you  been  the  daughter  of  a  noble  or  a 
peasant,  had  you  been  the  daughter  of  any  man  but  John. Ver- 
non, what  a  treasure  beyond  price,  without  parallel,  would 
that  heart,  that  beauty,  that  genius,  have  been! 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THE    PLEASURE  OF    RETALIATING    nUMILlATION". CONSTANCe's 

DEFENCE    OP    FASHION.  REMARKS    ON    FASHION.  GODOL- 

PHIN's     WHEREABOUT.  FANNY     MILLINGER's      CHARACTER 

OF    HERSELF.  WANT    OF    COURAGE    IN    MORALISTS. 

It  was  a  proud  moment  for  Constance  when  the  Duchess  of 
Winstoun  and  Lady  Margaret  Midgecombe  wrote  to  her,  wor- 
ried her,  beset  her,  for  a  smile,  a  courtesy,  an  invitation,  or  a 
ticket  to  Almack's. 

They  had  at  first  thought  to  cry  her  down ;  to  declare  that 
she  was  plebeian,  mad,  bizarre,  and  a  blue.  It  was  all  in 
vain.  Constance  rose  every  hour.  They  struggled  against 
the  conviction,  but  it  would  not  do.  The  first  person  who 
confounded  them  with  a  sense  of  their  error  was  the  late  King, 
then  Regent;  he  devoted  himself  to  Lady  Erpingham  for  a 
whole  evening,  at  a  ball  given  by  himself.  From  that  hour 
they  were  assured  they  had  been  wrong:  they  accordingly 
called  on  her  the  next  day.  Constance  received  them  with 
the  same  coldness  she  had  always  evinced;  but  they  went 
away  declaring  they  never  saw  any  one  whose  manners  were 
so  improved.  They  then  sent  her  an  invitation!  she  refused 
it;  a  second!  she  refused;  a  third,  begging  her  to  fix  the  day! 
she  fixed  the  day,  and  disappointed  them.  Lord  bless  us !  how 
sorry  they  were,  how  alarmed,  how  terrified !  —  their  dear 
Lady  Erpingham  must  be  ill!  they  sent  every  day  for  the 
next  week  to  know  how  she  was! 


GODOLPHIN.  115 

"Why,"  said  Mrs.  Trevor  to  Lady  Erpingham, —  "why  do 
you  continue  so  cruel  to  these  poor  people?  I  know  they 
were  very  impertinent,  and  so  forth,  once;  but  it  is  surely 
wiser  and  more  dignified  now  to  forgive;  to  appear  uncon- 
scious of  the  past:  people  of  the  world  ought  not  to  quarrel 
with  each  other." 

"You  are  right,  and  yet  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Constance; 
"I  do  forgive,  and  I  don't  quarrel;  but  my  opinion,  my  con- 
tempt, remain  the  same,  or  are  rather  more  disdainful  than 
ever.  These  people  are  not  worth  losing  the  luxury  we  all 
experience  in  expressing  contempt.  I  continue,  therefore, 
but  quietly  and  without  affectation,  to  indulge  that  luxury. 
Besides,  I  own  to  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Trevor,  I  do  think  that 
the  mere  insolence  of  titles  must  fairly  and  thoroughly  be  put 
down,  if  we  sincerely  wish  to  render  society  agreeable ;  and 
where  can  we  find  a  better  example  for  punishment  than  the 
Duchess  of  Winstoun?  " 

"But,  my  dear  Lady  Erpingham,  you  are  thought  insolent; 

your  friend.  Lady ,  is  called  insolent,  too, —  are  you  sure 

the  charge  is  not  merited?  " 

"I  allow  the  justice  of  the  charge;  but  you  will  observe, 
ours  is  not  the  insolence  of  rank :  we  have  made  it  a  point  to 
protect,  to  the  utmost,  the  poor  and  unfriended  of  all  circles. 
Are  we  ever  rude  to  governesses  or  companions  or  poor  writers 
or  musicians?  When  a  man  marries  below  him,  do  we  turn 
our  backs  on  the  poor  wife?  Do  we  not,  on  the  contrary, 
lavish  our  attention  on  her,  and  throw  round  her  equivocal 
and  joyless  state  the  protection  of  Fashion?  Xo,  no!  our  in- 
solence is  Justice  !  it  is  the  chalice  returned  to  the  lips 
which  prepared  it;  it  is  insolence  to  the  insolent;  reflect,  and 
you  will  allow  it." 

The  fashion  that  Constance  set  and  fostered  was  of  a  gen- 
erous order ;  but  it  was  not  suited  to  the  majority ;  it  was  cor- 
rupted by  her  followers  into  a  thousand  basenesses.  In  vain 
do  we  make  a  law,  if  the  general  spirit  is  averse  to  the  law, 
Constance  could  humble  the  great,  could  loosen  the  links  of 
extrinsic  rank,  could  undermine  the  power  of  titles ;  but  that 
was  all!     She  could  abase  the  proud,  but  not  elevate  the  gen- 


116  GODOLPHIN. 

eral  tone:  for  one  slavery  she  only  substituted  another, — 
people  hugged  the  chains  of  Fashion  as  before  they  hugged 
those  of  Titular  Arrogance. 

Amidst  the  gossip  of  the  day  Constance  heard  much  of 
Godolphin,  and  all  spoke  of  him  with  interest,— even  those 
who  could  not  comprehend  his  very  intricate  and  peculiar 
character.  Separated  from  her  by  lands  and  seas,  there 
seemed  no  danger  in  allowing  herself  the  sweet  pleasure  of 
hearing  his  actions  and  his  mind  discussed.  She  fancied  she 
did  not  permit  herself  to  love  him ;  she  was  too  pure  not  to 
start  at  such  an  idea;  but  her  mind  was  not  so  regulated,  so 
trained  and  educated  in  sacred  principle,  that  she  forbade 
herself  the  luxury  to  remember.  Of  his  present  mode  of  life 
she  heard  little.  He  was  traced  from  city  to  city,  from  shore 
to  shore ;  from  the  haughty  noblesse  of  Vienna  to  the  gloomy 
shrines  of  Memphis,  by  occasional  report,  and  seemed  to  tarry 
long  in  no  place.  This  roving  and  unsettled  life,  which  se- 
cretly assured  her  of  her  power,  suffused  his  image  in  all 
tender  and  remorseful  dyes.  Ah,  where  is  that  one  person 
to  be  envied,   could  we  read  the  heart? 

The  actress  had  heard  incidentally  from  Saville  of  Godol- 
phin's  attachment  to  the  beautiful  countess.  She  longed  to 
see  her ;  and  when,  one  night  at  the  theatre,  she  was  informed 
that  Lady  Erpingham  was  in  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  box 
close  before  her,  she  could  scarcely  command  her  self-posses- 
sion sufficiently  to  perform  with  her  wonted  brilliancy  of 
effect. 

She  was  greatly  struck  by  the  singular  nobleness  of  Lady 
Erpingham's  face  and  person;  and  Godolphin  rose  in  her  es- 
timation from  the  justice  of  the  homage  he  had  rendered  to 
so  fair  a  shrine.  What  a  curious  trait,  by  the  by,  that  is  in 
women, —  their  exaggerated  anxiety  to  see  one  who  has  been 
loved  by  the  man  in  whom  they  themselves  take  interest :  and 
the  manner  in  which  the  said  man  rises  or  falls  in  their  esti- 
mation, according  as  they  admire,  or  are  disappointed  in,  the 
object  of  his  love. 

"And  so,"  said  Saville,  supping  one  night  with  the  actress, 
"you  think  the  world  does  not  overlaud  Lady  Erpingham?  " 


GODOLPHIN.  117 

"Xo;  she  is  what  Medea  would  have  been,  if  innocent, — 
full  of  majesty,  and  yet  of  sweetness.  It  is  the  face  of  a 
queen  of  some  three  thousand  years  back.  I  could  have  wor- 
shipped her." 

"My  little  Fanny,  you  are  a  strange  creature.  JNIethinks 
you  have  a  dash  of  poetry  in  you." 

"Xobody  who  has  not  written  poetry  could  ever  read  my 
character,"  answered  Fanny,  with  naivete,  yet  with  truth. 

"Yet  you  have  not  much  of  the  ideal  about  you,  prettj- 
one." 

"No;  because  I  was  so  early  thrown  on  myself,  that  I  was 
forced  to  make  independence  my  chief  good.  I  soon  saw  that 
if  I  followed  my  heart  to  and  fro,  wherever  it  led  me,  I  should 
be  the  creature  of  every  breath,  the  victim  of  every  accident; 
I  should  have  been  the  very  soul  of  romance;  lived  on  a 
smile,  and  died,  perhaps,  in  a  ditch  at  last.  Accordingly,  I 
set  to  work  with  my  feelings,  and  pared  and  cut  them  down 
to  a  convenient  compass.  Happy  for  me  that  I  did  so!  What 
would  have  become  of  me  if,  years  ago,  when  I  loved  Go- 
dolphin,  I  had  thrown  the  whole  world  of  my  heart  upon 
him?" 

"Why,  he  has  generosity;  he  would  not  have  deserted 
you." 

"But  I  should  have  wearied  him,"  answered  Fanny;  "and 
that  would  have  been  quite  enough  for  me.  But  I  did  love 
him  well,  and  purely  —  ah!  you  may  smile! — and  disinter- 
estedly. I  was  only  fortified  in  my  resolution  not  to  love  any 
one  too  much,  by  perceiving  that  he  had  affection  but  no  sym- 
pathy for  me.  His  nature  was  different  from  mine.  I  am 
woman  in  everything,  and  Godolphin  is  always  sighing  for  a 
goddess  !  " 

"I  should  like  to  sketch  your  character,  Fanny.  It  is 
original,  though  not  strongly  marked.  I  never  met  with  it 
in  any  book;  yet  it  is  true  to  your  sex,  and  to  the  world." 

"Few  people  could  paint  me  exactly,"  answered  Fanny. 
"  The  danger  is,  that  they  would  make  too  much  or  too  little 
of  me.  But  such  as  I  am,  the  world  ought  to  know  what  is 
so  common,  and,  as  you  think,  so  undescribed." 


118  GODOLPHIN. 

Aud  now,  beautiful  Constance,  farewell  for  the  present!  I 
leave  you  surrounded  by  power  and  pomp  and  adulation.  En- 
joy as  you  may  that  for  which  you  sacrificed  affection! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE   VISIONARY    AND    HIS    DAUGHTER.  — AN   ENGLISHMAN, 
SUCH    AS    FOREIGNERS    IMAGINE    THE    ENGLISH. 

We  must  now  present  the  reader  to  characters  very  differ- 
ent from  those  which  have  hitherto  passed  before  his  eye. 

Without  the  immortal  city,  along  the  Appia  Via,  there 
dwelt  a  singular  and  romantic  visionary,  of  the  name  of 
Volktman.  He  was  by  birth  a  Dane;  and  Nature  had  be- 
stowed on  him  that  frame  of  mind  which  might  have  won 
him  a  distinguished  career,  had  she  placed  the  period  of  his 
birth  in  the  eleventh  century.  Volktman  was  essentially  a 
man  belonging  to  the  past  time :  the  character  of  his  enthu- 
siasm was  weird  and  Gothic;  with  beings  of  the  present  day 
he  had  no  sympathy;  their  loves,  their  hatreds,  their  politics, 
their  literature,  awoke  no  echo  in  his  breast.  He  did  not 
affect  to  herd  with  them ;  his  life  was  solitude,  and  its  occu- 
pation study, —  and  study  of  that  nature  which  every  day 
unfitted  him  more  and  more  for  the  purposes  of  existence. 
In  a  word,  he  was  a  reader  of  the  stars,  a  believer  in  the 
occult  and  dreamy  science  of  astrology.  Bred  up  to  the  art 
of  sculpture,  he  had  early  in  life  sought  Rome,  as  the  nurse 
of  inspiration;  but  even  then  he  had  brought  with  him  the 
dark  and  brooding  temper  of  his  northern  tribe.  The  images 
of  the  classic  world;  the  bright  and  cold  and  beautiful  divini- 
ties, whose  natures  as  well  as  shapes  the  marble  simulation  of 
life  is  so  especially  adapted  to  represent,  spoke  but  little  to 
Volktman's  pre-occupied  and  gloomy  imagination.  Faithful 
to  the  superstitions  and  the  warriors  of  the  North,  the  love- 
liness and  majesty  of  the  southern  creations  but  called  forth 


GODOLPHIX.  119 

in  him  the  desire  to  apply  the  principles  by  which  they  were 
formed  to  the  embodying  those  stern  visions  which  his  hag- 
gard and  dim  fancies  only  could  invoke.  This  train  of  inspir- 
ation preserved  him,  at  least,  from  the  deadliest  vice  in  a 
worshipper  of  the  arts, —  commonplace.  He  was  no  servile 
and  trite  imitator;  his  very  faults  were  solemn  and  command- 
ing. But  before  he  had  gained  that  long  experience  which 
can  alone  perfect  genius,  his  natural  energies  were  directed 
to  new  channels.  In  an  illness  which  prevented  his  apply- 
ing to  his  art,  he  had  accidentally  sought  entertainment  in  a 
certain  work  upon  astrology.  The  wild  and  imposing  theo- 
ries of  the  science  —  if  science  it  may  be  called  —  especially 
charmed  and  invited  him.  The  clear  bright  nights  of  his 
fatherland  were  brought  back  to  his  remembrance ;  he  recalled 
the  mystic  and  unanalyzed  impressions  with  which  he  had 
gazed  upon  the  lights  of  heaven,  and  he  imagined  that  the 
very  vagueness  of  his  feelings  was  a  proof  of  the  certainty  of 
the  science. 

The  sons  of  the  North  are  pre-eminently  liable  to  be  af- 
fected by  that  romance  of  emotion  which  the  hushed  and 
starry  aspect  of  night  is  calculated  to  excite.  The  long- 
broken  luxurious  silence  that,  in  their  frozen  climate,  reigns 
from  the  going  down  of  the  sun  to  its  rise ;  the  wandering 
and  sudden  meteors  that  disport,  as  with  an  impish  life, 
along  the  noiseless  and  solemn  heaven;  the  peculiar  radiance 
of  the  stars;  and  even  the  sterile  and  severe  features  of  the 
earth,  which  those  stars  light  up  with  tlieir  chill  and  ghostly 
serenity,  serve  to  deepen  the  effect  of  the  wizard  tales  which, 
are  instilled  into  the  ear  of  childhood,  and  to  connect  the 
less  known  and  more  visionary  impulses  of  life  with  the  in- 
fluences, or  at  least  with  the  associations,  of  iS'ight  and 
Heaven. 

To  Volktman,  more  alive  than  even  his  countrymen  are 
wont  to  be  to  superstitious  impressions,  the  science  on  which 
he  had  chanced  came  with  an  all-absorbing  interest  and  fasci- 
nation. He  surrendered  himself  wholly  to  his  new  pursuit. 
By  degrees  the  block  and  the  chisel  were  neglected,  and, 
though  he  still  worked  from  time  to  time,  he  ceased  to  con- 


120  GODOLPHIX. 

sider  the  sculptor's  art  as  the  vocation  of  his  life  and  the  end 
of  his  ambition.  Fortunately,  though  not  rich,  Volktman 
was  not  without  the  means  of  existence,  nor  even  without  the 
decent  and  proper  comforts;  so  that  he  was  enabled,  as  few 
men  are,  to  indulge  his  ardour  for  unprofitable  speculations, 
albeit  to  the  exclusion  of  lucrative  pursuits.  It  may  be  noted 
that  when  a  man  is  addicted  to  an  occupation  that  withdraws 
him  from  the  world,  any  great  affliction  tends  to  confirm,  with- 
out hope  of  cure,  his  inclinations  to  solitude.  The  world, 
distasteful  in  that  it  gave  no  pleasure,  becomes  irremediably 
hateful  when  it  is  coupled  with  the  remembrance  of  pain. 
Volktman  had  married  an  Italian,  a  woman  who  loved  him 
entirely,  and  whom  he  loved  with  that  strong  though  unca- 
ressing  affection  common  to  men  of  his  peculiar  temper.  Of 
the  gay  and  social  habits  and  constitution  of  her  country,  the 
Italian  was  not  disposed  to  suffer  the  astrologer  to  dwell  only 
among  the  stars.  She  sought,  playfully  and  kindly,  to  attract 
him  towards  human  society;  and  Volktman  could  not  always 
resist  —  as  what  man  earth-born  can  do?  —  the  influence  of 
the  fair  presider  over  his  house  and  hearth.  It  happened, 
that  on  one  day  in  which  she  peculiarly  wished  his  attendance 
at  some  one  of  those  parties  in  which  Englishmen  think  the 
notion  of  festivity  strange  —  for  it  includes  conversation  — 
Volktman  had  foretold  the  menace  of  some  great  misfortune. 
Uncertain,  from  the  character  of  the  prediction,  whether  to 
wish  his  wife  to  remain  at  home  or  to  go  abroad,  he  yielded 
to  her  wish,  and  accompanied  her  to  her  friend's  house.  A 
young  Englishman  lately  arrived  at  Eome,  and  already  cele- 
brated in  the  circles  of  that  city  for  his  eccentricity  of  life 
and  his  passion  for  beauty,  was  of  the  party.  He  appeared 
struck  with  the  sculptor's  wife;  and  in  his  attentions,  Volkt- 
man, for  the  first  and  the  last  time,  experienced  the  pangs  of 
jealousy ;  he  hurried  his  wife  away. 

On  their  return  home,  whether  or  not  a  jewel  worn  by  the 
signora  had  attracted  the  cupidity  of  some  of  the  lawless  race 
who  live  through  gaining,  and  profiting  by,  such  information, 
they  were  attacked  by  two  robbers  in  the  obscure  and  ill- 
lighted  suburb.     Though  Volktman  offered  no  resistance,  the 


GODOLPHIX.  121 

manner  of  their  assailants  Avas  rude  and  violent.  The  signora 
was  fearfully  alarmed;  her  shrieks  brought  a  stranger  to  their 
assistance ;  it  was  the  English  youth  who  had  so  alarmed  the 
jealousy  of  Volktman.  Accustomed  to  danger  in  his  profes- 
sion of  a  gallant,  the  Englishman  seldom,  in  those  foreign 
lands,  went  from  home  at  night  without  the  protection  of 
pistols.  At  the  sight  of  firearms,  the  ruffians  felt  their  cour- 
age evaporate ;  they  fled  from  their  prey ;  and  the  Englishman 
assisted  Volktman  in  conveying  the  Italian  to  her  home. 
But  the  terror  of  the  encounter  operated  fatally  on  a  delicate 
frame ;  and  within  three  weeks  from  that  night  Volktman  was 
a  widower. 

His  marriage  had  been  blessed  with  but  one  daughter,  who 
at  the  time  of  this  catastrophe  was  about  eight  years  of  age. 
His  love  for  his  child  in  some  measure  reconciled  Volktman 
to  life;  and  as  the  shock  of  the  event  subsided,  he  returned 
with  a  pertinacity  which  was  now  subjected  to  no  interruption 
to  his  beloved  occupations  and  mysterious  researches.  One 
visitor  alone  found  it  possible  to  win  frequent  ingress  to  his 
seclusion;  it  was  the  young  Englishman.  A  sentiment  of 
remorse  at  the  jealous  feelings  he  had  experienced,  and  for 
which  his  wife,  though  an  Italian,  had  never  given  him  even 
the  shadow  of  a  cause,  had  softened  into  a  feeling  rendered 
kind  by  the  associations  of  the  deceased,  and  a  vague  desire 
to  atone  to  her  for  an  acknowledged  error,  the  dislike  he  had  at 
first  conceived  against  the  young  man.  This  was  rapidly  con- 
firmed by  the  gentle  and  winniug  manners  of  the  stranger,  by 
his  attentions  to  the  deceased,  to  whom  he  had  sent  an  Eng- 
lish physician  of  great  skill,  and,  as  their  acquaintance  ex- 
panded, by  the  animated  interest  which  he  testified  in  the 
darling  theories  of  the  astrologer. 

It  happened  also  that  Volktman's  mother  had  been  the 
daughter  of  Scotch  parents.  She  had  taught  him  the  English 
tongue;  and  it  was  the  only  language,  save  his  own,  which 
he  spoke  as  a  native.  This  circumstance  tended  greatly  to 
facilitate  his  intercourse  with  the  traveller;  and  he  found 
in  the  society  of  a  man  ardent,  sensitive,  melancholy,  and 
addicted  to  all  abstract  contemplation,    a  pleasure  which, 


122  GODOLPHIN. 

among  the  keen  but  uncultivated  intellects  of  Italy,  he  had 
never  enjoyed. 

Frequently,  then,  came  the  young  Englishman  to  the  lone 
house  on  the  Appia  Via;  and  the  mysterious  and  unearthly 
conversation  of  the  starry  visionary  alforded  to  him,  who  had 
early  learned  to  scrutinize  the  varieties  of  his  kind,  a  strange 
delight,  heightened  by  the  contrast  it  presented  to  the  worldly 
natures  with  which  he  usually  associated,  and  the  common- 
place occupations  of  a  life  in  pursuit  of  pleasure. 

And  there  was  one  who,  child  as  she  was,  watched  the 
coming  of  that  young  and  beautiful  stranger  with  emotion 
beyond  her  years.  Brought  up  alone;  mixing,  since  her 
mother's  death,  with  no  companions  of  her  age;  catching 
dim  and  solemn  glimpses  of  her  father's  wild  but  lofty  specu- 
lations ;  his  books,  filled  with  strange  characters  and  imi)os- 
ing  "words  of  mighty  sound,"  open  forever  to  her  young  and 
curious  gaze, —  it  can  scarce  be  matter  of  wonder  that  some- 
thing strange  and  unworldly  mingled  with  the  elements  of 
character  which  Lucilla  Volktman  early  developed, —  a  char- 
acter that  was  nature  itself,  yet  of  a  nature  erratic  and  bizarre. 
Her  impulses  she  obeyed  spontaneously,  but  none  fathomed 
their  origin.  She  was  not  of  a  quiet  and  meek  order  of  mind; 
but  passionate,  changeful,  and  restless.  She  would  laugh  and 
weep  without  apparent  cause,  and  the  colour  on  her  cheek 
never  seemed  for  two  minutes  the  same ;  and  the  most  fitful 
changes  of  an  April  heaven  were  immutability  itself  compared 
with  the  play  and  lustre  of  expression  that  undulated  in  her 
features  and  her  wild,  deep,  eloquent  eyes. 

Her  person  resembled  her  mind;  it  was  beautiful,  but  the 
beauty  struck  you  less  than  the  singularity  of  its  character. 
Her  eyes  were  of  a  darkness  that  at  night  seemed  black,  but 
her  hair  was  of  the  brightest  and  purest  auburn;  her  com- 
plexion, sometimes  pale,  sometimes  radiant  even  to  the  flush 
of  a  fever,  was  delicate  and  clear ;  her  teeth  and  mouth  were 
lovely  beyond  all  words ;  her  hands  and  feet  were  small  to  a 
fault;  and  as  she  grew  up  (for  we  have  forestalled  her  age  in 
this  description)  her  shape,  though  wanting  in  height,  was  in 
such  harmony  and  proportion,  that  the  mind  of  the  sculptor 


GODOLPHIN.  123 

would  sometimes  escape  from  the  absorption  of  the  astrologer, 
and  Volktman  would  gaze  upou  her  with  the  same  admiration 
that  he  would  have  bestowed,  in  spite  of  the  subject,  on  the 
goddess-forms  of  Phidias  or  Canova.  But  then,  this  beauty 
was  accompanied  with  such  endless  variety  of  gesture,  often 
so  wild,  though  always  necessarily  graceful,  that  the  eye 
ached  for  that  repose  requisite  for  prolonged  admiration. 

When  she  was  spoken  to,  she  did  not  often  answer  to  the 
purpose,  but  rather  appeared  to  reply  as  to  some  interroga- 
tory of  her  own ;  in  the  midst  of  one  occupation,  she  would 
start  up  to  another;  leave  that,  in  turn,  undone,  and  sit  down 
in  silence  lasting  for  hours.  Her  voice,  in  singing,  was  ex- 
quisitely melodious;  she  had,  too,  an  intuitive  talent  for 
painting ;  and  she  read  all  the  books  that  came  in  her  way 
with  an  avidity  that  bespoke  at  once  the  restlessness  and  the 
genius  of  her  mind. 

This  description  of  Lucilla  must,  I  need  scarcely  repeat, 
be  considered  as  applicable  to  her  at  some  years  distant  from 
the  time  in  which  the  young  Englishman  first  attracted  her 
childish  but  ardent  imagination.  To  her,  that  face,  with  its 
regular  and  harmonious  features,  its  golden  hair,  and  soft, 
shy,  melancholy  aspect,  seemed  as  belonging  to  a  higher 
and  brighter  order  of  beings  than  those  who,  with  exag- 
gerated lineaments  and  swarthy  hues,  surrounded  and  dis- 
pleased her.  She  took  a  strange  and  thrilling  pleasure  in 
creeping  to  his  side,  and  looking  up  when  unobserved  at  the 
countenance  which  in  his  absence  she  loved  to  imitate  with 
her  pencil  by  day,  and  to  recall  in  her  dreams  at  night.  But 
she  seldom  spoke  to  him,  and  she  shrank,  covered  with  pain- 
ful blushes,  from  his  arms,  whenever  he  attempted  to  bestow 
on  her  those  caresses  which  children  are  wont  to  claim  as  an 
attention.  Once,  however,  she  summoned  courage  to  ask 
him  to  teach  her  English,  and  he  complied.  She  learned 
that  language  with  surprising  facility;  and  as  Volktman  loved 
its  sound  she  grew  familiar  with  its  difficulties  by  always 
addressing  her  father  in  a  tongue  which  became  inexpressibly 
dear  to  her.  And  the  young  stranger  delighted  to  hear  that 
soft  and  melodious  voice,  with  its  trembling,   Italian  accent, 


124  GODOLPHIN. 

make  music  from  the  nervous  and  masculine  language  of  his 
native  land.  Scarce  accountably  to  himself,  a  certain  tender 
and  peculiar  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  this  singular  and  be- 
witching child  grew  up  within  him, —  peculiar  and  not  easily 
accounted  for,  in  that  it  was  not  wholly  the  interest  we  feel 
in  an  engaging  child,  and  yet  was  of  no  more  interested  nor 
sinister  order.  Were  there  truth  in  the  science  of  the  stars, 
I  should  say  that  they  had  told  him  her  fate  was  to  have 
affinity  with  his;  and  with  that  persuasion,  something  mys- 
terious and  more  than  ordinarily  tender  entered  into  the 
affection  he  felt  for  the  daughter  of  his  friend. 

The  Englishman  was  himself  of  a  romantic  character.  He 
had  been  self-taught;  and  his  studies,  irregular  though  often 
deep,  had  given  directions  to  his  intellect  frequently  enthu- 
siastic and  unsound.  His  imagination  preponderated  over 
his  judgment;  and  any  pursuit  that  attracted  his  imagination 
won  his  entire  devotion,  until  his  natural  sagacity  proved  it 
deceitful.  If  at  times,  living  as  he  did  in  that  daily  world 
which  so  sharpens  our  common-sense,  he  smiled  at  the  per- 
severing fervour  of  the  astrologer,  he  more  often  shared  it; 
and  he  became  his  pupil  in  "  the  poetry  of  heaven, "  with  a 
secret  but  deep  belief  in  the  mysteries  cultivated  by  his  mas- 
ter. Carrying  the  delusion  to  its  height,  I  fear  that  the 
enthusiast  entered  upon  ground  still  more  shadowy  and 
benighted, —  the  old  secrets  of  the  alchemist,  and  perhaps 
even  of  those  arcana  yet  more  gloomy  and  less  rational,  were 
subjected  to  their  serious  contemplation;  and  night  after 
night,  they  delivered  themselves  wholly  up  to  that  fearful 
and  charmed  fascination  which  the  desire  and  effort  to  over- 
leap our  mortal  boundaries  produce  even  in  the  hardest  and 
best  regulated  minds.  The  train  of  thought  so  long  nursed 
by  the  abstruse  and  solitary  Dane  was,  perhaps,  a  better 
apology  for  the  weakness  of  credulity  than  the  youth  and 
wandering  fancy  of  the  Englishman.  But  the  scene  around 
—  not  alluring  to  the  one  —  fed  to  overflowing  the  romantic 
aspirations  of  the  other. 

On  his  way  home,  as  the  stars  (which  night  had  been  spent 
in  reading)  began  to  wink  and  fade,  the  Englishman  crossed 


GODOLPHIN.  125 

the  haunted  Almo,  renowned  of  yore  for  its  healing  virtues, 
and  in  whose  stream  the  far-famed  simulacrum  (the  image  of 
Cybele),  which  fell  from  heaven,  was  wont  to  be  laved  with 
every  coming  spring:  and  around  his  steps,  till  he  gained  his 
home,  were  the  relics  and  monuments  of  that  superstition 
which  sheds  so  much  beauty  over  all  tha.t,  in  harsh  reasoning, 
it  may  be  said  to  degrade ;  so  that  his  mind,  always  peculiarly 
alive  to  external  impressions,  was  girt,  as  it  were,  with  an 
atmosphere  favourable  both  to  the  lofty  speculation  and  the 
graceful  credulities  of  romance. 

The  Englishman  remained  at  Eome,  with  slight  intervals 
of  absence,  for  nearly  three  years.  On  the  night  before  the 
day  in  which  he  received  intelligence  of  an  event  that  re- 
called him  to  his  native  country,  he  repaired  at  an  hour  acci- 
dentally later  than  usual  to  the  astrologer's  abode. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  COXVERSATIOX  LITTLE  APPEKTAIXIXG  TO  THE  XIXETEEXTH 
CENTURY.  RESEARCHES  INTO  HUMAN  FATE.  —  THE  PRE- 
DICTION. 

On  entering  the  apartment,  he  found  Lucilla  seated  on  a 
low  Stool  beside  the  astrologer.  She  looked  up  when  she 
heard  his  footsteps ;  but  her  countenance  seemed  so  dejected, 
that  he  turned  involuntarily  to  that  of  Volktman  for  expla- 
nation. Yolktman  met  his  gaze  with  a  steadfast  and  mourn- 
ful aspect. 

"  What  has  happened?  "  asked  the  Englishman.  "  You  seem 
sad, —  you  do  not  greet  me  as  usual." 

"I  have  been  with  the  stars,"  replied  the  visionary. 

"They  seem  but  poor  company,"  rejoined  the  Englishman; 
"and  do  not  appear  to  have  much  heightened  your  spirits." 

"Jest  not,  my  friend,"  said  Volktman;  "it  was  for  the  loss 
of  thee  I  looked  sorrowful.  I  perceive  that  thou  wilt  take  a 
journey  soon,  and  that  it  will  be  of  no  pleasant  nature." 


126  GODOLPIIIN. 

*'  Indeed  !  "  answered  the  Englishman,  smilingly.  "  I  ask 
leave  to  question  the  fact:  you  know  better  than  any  man, 
how  often,  through  an  error  in  our  calculations,  through  haste, 
even  through  an  over-attention,  astrological  predictions  are 
exposed  to  falsification;  and  at  present  I  foresee  so  little 
chance  of  my  quitting  Rome  that  I  prefer  the  earthly  proba- 
bilities to  the  celestial." 

"  My  schemes  are  just,  and  the  Heavens  wrote  their  decrees 
in  their  clearest  language,"  answered  the  astrologer.  "Thou 
art  on  the  eve  of  quitting  Kome." 

"On  what  occasion?  " 

The  astrologer  hesitated;  the  young  visitor  pressed  the 
question. 

"The  lord  of  the  fourth  house,"  said  Volktman,  reluctantly, 
"  is  located  in  the  eleventh  house.  Thou  knowest  to  whom 
the  position  portends  disaster." 

"My  father!  "  said  the  Englishman,  anxiously,  and  turning 
pale;  " I  think  that  position    would  relate  to  him." 

"It  doth,"  said  the  astrologer,  slowly. 

"Impossible!  I  heard  from  him  to-day;  he  is  well.  Let 
me  see  the  figures." 

The  young  man  looked  over  the  mystic  hieroglyphics  of  the 
art,  inscribed  on  a  paper  that  was  placed  before  the  vision- 
ary, with  deep  and  scrutinizing  attention.  Without  bewilder- 
ing the  reader  with  those  words  and  figures  of  weird  sound 
and  import  which  perplex  the  uninitiated,  and  entangle  the 
disciple  of  astrology,  I  shall  merely  observe  that  there  was 
one  point  in  which  the  judgment  appeared  to  admit  doubt  as 
to  the  signification.  The  Englishman  insisted  on  the  doubt: 
and  a  very  learned  and  edifying  debate  was  carried  on  be- 
tween pupil  and  master,  in  the  heat  of  which  all  recollec- 
tion of  the  point  in  dispute  (as  is  usual  in  such  cases) 
evaporated. 

"I  know  not  how  it  is,"  said  the  Englishman,  "that  I 
should  give  any  credence  to  a  faith  which  (craving  your  for- 
giveness) most  men  out  of  Bedlam  concur,  at  this  day,  in 
condemning  as  wholly  idle  and  absurd.  For  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed that  men  only  incline  to  some  unpopular  theory  in 


GODOLPHIX.  127 

proportion  as  it  flatters  or  favours  them;  and  as  for  this 
theory  of  yours  —  of  ours,  if  you  will  —  it  has  foretold  me 
nothing  but  misfortune." 

"Thy  horoscope,"  replied  the  astrologer,  "is  indeed  singu- 
lar and  ominous:  but,  like  my  daughter,  the  exact  minute 
(within  almost  a  whole  hour)  of  thy  birth  seems  unknown; 
and  however  ingeniously  we,  following  the  ancients,  have 
contrived  means  for  correcting  nativities,  our  predictions  (so 
long  as  the  exact  period  of  birth  is  not  ascertained)  remain 
in  my  mind  always  liable  to  some  uncertainty.  Indeed,  the 
surest  method  of  reducing  the  supposed  time  to  the  true  — 
that  of  'Accidents  '  —  is  but  partially  given,  as  in  thy  case; 
for,  with  a  negligence  that  cannot  be  too  severely  blamed  or 
too  deeply  lamented,  thou  hast  omitted  to  mark  down,  or 
remember,  the  days  on  which  accidents  —  fevers,  broken 
limbs,  etc.  —  occurred  to  thee ;  and  this  omission  leaves  a 
cloud  over  the  bright  chapters  of  fate  — " 

"Which,"  interrupted  the  young  man,  "is  so  much  the 
happier  for  me,  in  that  it  allows  me  some  loophole  for 
hope." 

"Yet,"  renewed  the  astrologer,  as  if  resolved  to  deny  his 
friend  any  consolation,  "thy  character,  and  the  bias  of  thy 
habits,  as  well  as  the  peculiarities  of  thy  person, —  nay, 
even  the  moles  upon  thy  skin, —  accord  with  thy  proposed 
horoscope." 

"Be  it  so!"  said  the  Englishman,  gayly.  "You  grant  me, 
at  least,  the  fairest  of  earthly  gifts, —  the  happiness  of  pleas- 
ing that  sex  which  alone  sweetens  our  human  misfortunes. 
That  gift  I  would  sooner  have,  even  accompanied  as  it  is, 
than  all  the  benign  influences  without  it." 

"Yet,"  said  the  astrologer,  "shalt  thou  even  there  be  met 
with  affliction;  for  Saturn  had  the  power  to  thwart  the  star 
Venus,  that  was  disposed  to  favour  thee,  and  evil  may  be  the 
result  of  the  love  thou  inspirest.  There  is  one  thing  remark- 
able in  our  science,  which  is  especially  worthy  of  notice  in 
thy  lot.  The  ancients,  unacquainted  with  the  star  of  Her- 
schel,  seem  also  scarcely  acquainted  with  the  character  which 
the  influence  of  that  wayward  and  melancholy  orb   creates. 


128  GODOLPHIN. 

Thus,  the  aspect  of  Herschel  neutralizes,  in  great  measure, 
the  boldness  and  ambition  and  pride  of  heart  thou  wouldst 
otherwise  have  drawn  from  the  felicitous  configuration  of  the 
stars  around  the  Moon  and  Mercury  at  thy  birth.  That  yearn- 
ing for  something  beyond  the  narrow  bounds  of  the  world, 
that  love  for  revcry,  that  passionate  romance,  yea,  thy  very 
leaning,  despite  thy  worldly  sense,  to  these  occult  and  starry 
mysteries, —  all  are  bestowed  on  thee  by  this  new  and  poten- 
tial planet." 

"And  hence,  I  suppose,"  said  the  Englishman,  interested 
(as  the  astrologer  had  declared)  in  spite  of  himself,  "hence 
that  opposition  in  my  nature  of  the  worldly  and  romantic; 
hence,  with  you,  I  am  the  dreaming  enthusiast,  but  the  in- 
stant I  regain  the  living  and  motley  crowd,  I  shake  off  the 
influence  with  ease,  and  become  the  gay  pursuer  of  social 
pleasures." 

"Never  at  heart  gay,''''  muttered  the  astrologer;  "Saturn 
and  Herschel  make  not  sincere  mirth-makers."  The  English- 
man did  not  hear  or  seem  to  hear  him. 

"No,"  resumed  the  young  man,  musingly,  "no!  it  is  true 
that  there  is  some  counteraction  of  what,  at  times,  I  should 
have  called  my  natural  bent.  Thus,  I  am  bold  enough,  and 
covetous  of  knowledge,  and  not  deaf  to  vanity;  and  yet  I 
have  no  ambition.  The  desire  to  rise  seems  to  me  wholly  un- 
alluring:  I  scorn  and  contemn  it  as  a  weakness.  But  what 
matters  it?  So  much  the  happier  for  me  if,  as  you  predict, 
my  life  be  short.  But  how,  if  so  unambitious  and  so  quiet  of 
habit,  how  can  I  imagine  that  my  death  will  be  violent  as 
well  as  premature  ?  " 

It  was  as  he  spoke  that  the  young  Lucilla,  who,  with  fixed 
eyes  and  lips  apart,  had  been  drinking  in  their  conversation, 
suddenly  rose  and  left  the  room.  They  were  used  to  her 
comings  in  and  her  goings  out  without  cause  or  speech,  and 
continued  their  conversation. 

"  Alas !  "  said  the  visionary,  "  can  tranquillity  of  life  or 
care  or  prudence  preserve  us  from  our  destiny?  No  sign  is 
more  deadly,  whether  by  accident  or  murder,  than  that  which 
couples  Hyleg  with  Orion  and  Saturn.     Yet  thou  mayest  pass 


GODOLPllIX.  129 

the  year  in  which  that  danger  is  foretold  thee ;  and  beyond 
that  time  peace,  honour,  good  fortune,  await  thee.  Better  to 
have  the  menace  of  ill  in  early  life  than  in  its  decline.  Youth 
bears  up  against  misfortune;  but  it  withers  the  heart,  and 
crushes  the  soul  of  age!" 

"After  all,"  said  the  young  guest,  haughtily,  "we  must  do 
our  best  to  contradict  the  starry  evils  by  our  own  internal 
philosophy.  We  can  make  ourselves  independent  of  fate; 
that  independence  is  better  than  prosperity !  "  Then,  chang- 
ing his  tone,  he  added,  "But  you  imagine  that,  by  the  power 
of  other  arts,  we  may  control  and  counteract  the  prophecies 
of  the  stars  —  " 

"  How  meanest  thou?  "  said  the  astrologer,  hastily,  "  Thou 
dost  not  suppose  that  alchemy,  which  is  the  servant  of  the 
heavenly  host,  is  their  opponent?" 

"Xay,"  answered  the  disciple;  "but  you  allow  that  we 
may  be  enabled  to  ward  off  evils,  and  to  cure  diseases,  other- 
wise fatal  to  us,  by  the  gift  of  Uriel  and  the  charm  of  the 
Cabala?  " 

"Surely,"  replied  the  visionary;  "but  then  I  opine  that  the 
discovery  of  these  precious  secrets  was  foretold  to  us  by  the 
Omniscient  Book  at  our  nativity;  and,  therefore,  though  the 
menace  of  evils  be  held  out  to  us,  so  also  is  the  probability  of 
their  correction  or  our  escape.  And  I  must  own,"  pursued 
the  enthusiast,  "that,  to  me,  the  very  culture  of  those  divine 
arts  hath  given  a  consolation  amidst  the  evils  to  which  I  have 
been  fated ;  so  true  seems  it  that  it  is  not  in  the  outer  nature,, 
in  the  great  elements,  and  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  but  also' 
within  ourselves,  that  we  must  look  for  the  preparations, 
whereby  we  are  to  achieve  the  wisdom  of  Zoroaster  and 
Hermes.  We  must  abstract  ourselves  from  passion  and 
earthly  desires.  Lapped  in  a  celestial  revery,  we  must  work 
out,  by  contemplation,  the  essence  from  the  matter  of  things : 
nor  can  we  dart  into  the  soul  of  the  Mystic  World  until  we 
ourselves  have  forgotten  the  body;  and  by  fast,  by  purity, 
and  by  thought  have  become,  in  the  flesh  itself,  a  living 
soul." 

Much  more,  and  with  an  equal  wildness  of  metaphysical 

9 


130  GODOLPHIN. 

eloquence,  did  the  astrologer  declare  in  praise  of  those  arts 
condemned  by  the  old  Church;  and  it  doth  indeed  appear 
from  reference  to  the  numerous  works  of  the  alchemists  and 
magians  yet  extant,  somewhat  hastily  and  unjustly.  -  For 
those  books  all  unite  in  dwelling  on  the  necessity  of  virtue, 
subdued  passions,  and  a  clear  mind,  in  order  to  become  a  for- 
tunate and  accomplished  cabalist, —  a  precept,  by  the  way, 
not  without  its  policy;  for,  if  the  disciple  failed,  the  failure 
might  be  attributed  to  his  own  fleshy  imperfections,  not  to 
any  deficiency  in  the  truth  of  the  science. 

The  young  man  listened  to  the  visionary  with  an  earnest 
and  fascinated  attention.  Independent  of  the  dark  interest 
always  attached  to  discourses  of  supernatural  things  more 
especially,  we  must  allow,  in  the  mouth  of  a  fervent  and  rapt 
believer,  there  was  that  in  the  language  and  very  person  of 
the  astrologer  which  inexpressibly  enhanced  the  effect  of  the 
theme.  Like  most  men  acquainted  with  the  literature  of  a 
country,  but  not  accustomed  to  daily  conversation  with  its 
natives,  the  English  words  and  fashion  of  periods  that  oc- 
curred to  Volktman  were  rather  those  used  in  books  than  in 
colloquy;  and  a  certain  solemnity  and  slowness  of  tone  ac- 
companied with  the  frequent,  almost  constant  use  of  the  pro- 
noun singular, —  the  ^7io?^  and  the  thee, —  gave  a  strangeness 
and  unfamiliar  majesty  to  his  dialect  that  suited  well  with 
the  subjects  on  which  he  so  loved  to  dwell.  He  himself  was 
lean,  gaunt,  and  wan;  his  cheeks  were  drawn  and  hollow; 
and  thin  locks,  prematurely  bleached  to  gray,  fell  in  disorder 
round  high,  bare  temples,  in  which  the  thought  that  is  not 
of  this  world  had  paled  the  hue  and  furrowed  the  surface. 
But,  as  may  be  noted  in  many  imaginative  men,  the  life  that 
seemed  faint  and  chill  in  the  rest  of  the  frame  collected  it- 
self, as  in  a  citadel,  within  the  eye.  Bright,  wild,  and  deep, 
the  expression  of  those  blue  large  orbs  told  the  intense  enthu- 
siasm of  the  mind  within,  and  even  somewhat  thrillingly 
communicated  a  part  of  that  emotion  to  those  on  whom  they 
dwelt.  No  painter  could  have  devised,  nor  even  Volktman 
himself,  in  the  fulness  of  his  northern  fantasy,  have  sculp- 
tured forth  a  better  image  of  those  pale  and  unearthly  stu- 


GODOLPHIN.  131 

dents  who,  iu  the  darker  ages,  applied  life  and  learning  to 
one  unhallowed  vigil,  the  Hermes  or  the  Gebir  of  the  alche- 
mist's empty  science, —  dreamers,  and  the  martyrs  of  their 
dreams. 

In  the  discussion  of  mysteries  which  to  detail  would  only 
weary  while  it  perplexed  the  reader,  the  enthusiasts  passed 
the  greater  portion  of  the  night;  and  when  at  length  the  Eng- 
lishman rose  to  depart,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  a  solemn  and 
boding  emotion  agitated  his  breast. 

"We  have  talked,"  said  he,  attempting  a  smile,  "of  things 
above  this  nether  life;  and  here  we  are  lost,  uncertain.  Qn 
one  thing,  however,  we  can  decide, —  life  itself  is  encom- 
passed with  gloom;  sorrow  and  anxiety  avv^ait  even  those 
upon  whom  the  stars  shed  their  most  golden  influence.  We 
know  not  one  day  what  the  next  shall  bring !  —  no ;  I  repeat 
it;  no, —  in  spite  of  your  scheme  and  your  ephemeris  and 
your  election  of  happy  moments.  But,  come  what  will, 
Volktman,  come  all  that  you  foretell  to  me, —  crosses  in  my 
love,  disappointment  in  my  life,  melancholy  in  my  blood, 
and  a  violent  death  in  the  very  flush  of  my  manhood, —  me 
at  least,  me!  my  soul,  my  heart,  my  better  part,  you  shall 
never  cast  down  nor  darken  nor  deject.  I  move  in  a  certain 
and  serene  circle;  ambition  cannot  tempt  me  above  it,  nor 
misfortune  cast  me  below!  " 

Volktman  looked  at  the  speaker  with  surprise  and  admira- 
tion; the  enthusiasm  of  a  brave  mind  is  the  only  fire  broader 
and  brighter  than  that  of  a  fanatical  one. 

"Alas!  my  young  friend,"  he  said,  as  he  clasped  the  hand 
of  his  guest,  "  I  would  to  Heaven  that  my  predictions  may  be 
wrong:  often  and  often  they  have  been  erroneous,"  added  he, 
bowing  his  head  humbly;  "they  may  be  so  in  their  reference 
to  thee.  So  young,  so  brilliant,  so  beautiful  too;  so  brave, 
yet  so  romantic  of  heart,  I  feel  for  all  that  may  happen  to 
thee, —  ay,  far,  far  more  deeply  than  aught  which  may  be 
fated  to  myself;  for  I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  long  inured 
to  disappointment;  all  the  greenness  of  my  life  is  gone:  even 
could  I  attain  to  the  Grand  Secret,  the  knowledge  methinks 
would  be  too  late.     And,  at  my  birth,  my  lot  was  portioned 


132  GODOLPIIIN. 

out  unto  me  in  characters  so  clear,  that,  while  I  have  had  time 
to  acquiesce  in  it,  I  have  had  no  hope  to  correct  and  change 
it.  For  Jupiter  in  Cancer,  removed  from  the  Ascendant,  and 
not  impedited  of  any  other  star,  betokened  me  indeed  some 
expertness  in  science,  but  a  life  of  seclusion,  and  one  that 
should  bring  not  forth  the  fruits  that  its  labour  deserved. 
But  there  is  so  much  in  thy  fate  that  ought  to  be  bright  and 
glorious,  that  it  will  be  no  common  destiny  marred,  should 
the  evil  influences  and  the  ominous  seasons  prevail  against 
thee.  But  thou  speakest  boldly,— boldly,  and  as  one  of  a 
high  soul,  though  it  be  sometimes  clouded  and  led  astray. 
And  I,  therefore,  again  and  again  impress  upon  thee,  it  is 
from  thine  own  self,  thine  own  character,  thine  own  habits, 
that  all  evil,  save  that  of  death,  will  come.  Wear,  then,  I 
implore  thee,  wear  in  thy  memory,  as  a  jewel,  the  first  great 
maxim  of  alchemist  and  magian, —  ' Search  thyself;  cor- 
rect thyself;  subdue  thyself:'  it  is  only  through  the 
lamp  of  crystal  that  the  light  will  shine  duly  out." 

"It  is  more  likely  that  the  stars  should  err,"  returned  the 
Englishman,  "  than  that  the  human  heart  should  correct  itself 
of  error:  adieu!  " 

He  left  the  room,  and  proceeded  along  a  passage  that  led  to 
the  outer  door.  Ere  he  reached  it,  another  door  opened  sud- 
denly, and  the  face  of  Lucilla  broke  forth  upon  him.  She 
held  a  light  in  her  hand;  and  as  she  gazed  on  the  English- 
man, he  saw  that  her  face  was  very  pale,  and  that  she  had 
been  weeping.  She  looked  at  him  long  and  earnestly,  and 
the  look  affected  him  strangely;  he  broke  silence,  which  at 
first  it  appeared  to  him  difficult  to  do. 

"Good-night,  my  pretty  friend,"  said  he:  "shall  I  bring 
you  some  flowers  to-morrow?  " 

Lucilla  burst  into  a  wild  eldrich  laugh;  and  abruptly  clos- 
ing the  door,  left  him  in  darkness. 

The  cool  air  of  the  breaking  dawn  came  freshly  to  the 
cheek  of  our  countryman ;  yet,  still,  an  unpleasant  and  heavy 
sensation  sat  at  his  heart.  His  nerves,  previously  weakened 
by  his  long  commune  with  the  visionary,  and  the  effect  it  had 
produced,  yet  tingled  and  thrilled  with  the  abrupt  laugh  and 


GODOLPHIN.  133 

meaning  countenance  of  that  strange  girl,  wlio  differed  so 
widely  from  all  others  of  her  years.  The  stars  were  growing 
pale  and  ghostly,  and  there  was  a  mournful  and  dim  haze 
around  the  moon. 

"Ye  look  ominously  upon  me,"  said  he,  half  aloud,  as  his 
eyes  fixed  their  gaze  above;  and  the  excitement  of  his  spirit 
spread  to  his  language, —  "ye  on  whom,  if  our  lore  be  faithful, 
the  Most  High  hath  written  the  letters  of  our  mortal  doom. 
And  if  ye  rule  the  tides  of  the  great  deep,  and  the  changes  of 
the  rolling  year,  what  is  there  out  of  reason  or  nature  in  our 
belief  that  ye  hold  the  same  sympathetic  and  unseen  influence 
over  the  blood  and  heart,  which  are  the  character  (and  the 
character  makes  the  conduct)  of  man?"  Pursuing  his  solilo- 
quy of  thought,  and  finding  reasons  for  a  credulity  that  af- 
forded to  him  but  little  cause  for  pleasure  or  hope,  the 
Englishman  took  his  way  to  St.  Sebastian's  gate. 

There  was,  in  truth,  much  in  the  traveller's  character  that 
corresponded  Avith  that  which  was  attributed  and  destined  to 
one  to  whom  the  heavens  had  given  a  horoscope  answering  to 
his  own;  and  it  was  this  conviction,  rather  than  any  acciden- 
tal coincidence  in  events,  which  had  first  led  him  to  pore  with 
a  deep  attention  over  the  vain  but  imposing  prophecies  of 
judicial  astrology.  Possessed  of  all  the  powers  that  enable 
men  to  rise;  ardent,  yet  ordinarily  shrewd;  eloquent,  witty, 
brave,  and,  though  not  what  may  be  termed  versatile,  possess- 
ing that  rare  art  of  concentrating  the  faculties  which  enables 
the  possessor  rapidly  and  thoroughly  to  master  whatsoever 
once  arrests  the  attention,  he  yet  despised  all  that  would 
have  brought  these  endowments  into  full  and  legitimate  dis- 
play. He  lived  only  for  enjoyment.  A  passionate  lover  of 
women,  music,  letters,  and  the  arts,  it  was  society,  not  the 
world,  which  made  the  sphere  and  end  of  his  existence.  Yet 
was  he  no  vulgar  and  commonplace  epicurean :  he  lived  for 
enjoyment;  but  that  enjo3'ment  was  mainly  formed  from  ele- 
ments wearisome  to  more  ordinary  natures.  Revery,  con- 
templation, loneliness,  were  at  times  dearer  to  him  than  the 
softer  and  more  Aristippean  delights.  His  energies  were 
called  forth  in  society,  but  he  was  scarcely  social.     Trained 


134  GODOLPHIN. 

from  his  early  boyhood  to  solitude,  he  was  seldom  weary  of 
being  alone.  He  sought  the  crowd,  not  to  amuse  himself,  but 
to  observe  others.  The  world  to  him  was  less  as  a  theatre  on 
which  he  was  to  play  a  part  than  as  a  book  in  which  he  loved 
to  decipher  the  enigmas  of  wisdom.  He  observed  all  that 
passed  around  him.  No  sprightly  cavalier  at  any  time,  the 
charm  that  he  exercised  at  will  over  his  companions  was  that 
of  softness,  not  vivacity.  But  amidst  that  silken  blandness 
of  demeanour,  the  lynx  eye  of  Eemark  never  slept.  He  pene- 
trated character  at  a  glance,  but  he  seldom  made  use  of  his 
knowledge.  He  found  a  pleasure  in  reading  men,  but  a  fa- 
tigue in  governing  them.  And  thus,  consummately  skilled  as 
he  was  in  the  science  du  monde,  he  often  allowed  himself  to 
appear  ignorant  of  its  practice.  Forming  in  his  mind  a  beau- 
ideal  of  friendship  and  of  love,  he  never  found  enough  in  the 
realities  long  to  engage  his  affection.  Thus  with  women  he 
was  considered  fickle,  and  with  men  he  had  no  intimate  com- 
panionship. This  trait  of  character  is  common  with  persons 
of  genius ;  and,  owing  to  too  large  an  overflow  of  heart,  they 
are  frequently  considered  heartless.  There  is  always,  how- 
ever, danger  that  a  character  of  this  kind  should  become  with 
years  what  it  seems, —  what  it  soon  learns  to  despise.  Noth- 
ing steels  the  affections  like  contempt. 

The  next  morning  an  express  from  England  reached  the 
young  traveller.  His  father  was  dangerously  ill ;  nor  was  it 
expected  that  the  utmost  diligence  would  enable  the  young 
man  to  receive  his  last  blessing.  The  Englishman,  appalled 
and  terror-stricken,  recalled  his  interview  with  the  astrolo- 
ger. Nothing  so  effectually  dismays  us  as  to  feel  a  confirma- 
tion of  some  idea  of  supernatural  dread  that  has  already 
found  entrance  within  our  reason;  and  of  all  supernatural 
belief,  that  of  being  compelled  by  a  predecree,  and  thus 
being  the  mere  tools  and  puppets  of  a  dark  and  relentless 
fate,  seems  the  most  fraught  at  once  with  abasement  and  with 
horror. 

The  Englishman  left  Rome  that  morning,  and  sent  only 
a  verbal  and  hasty  message  to  the  astrologer,  announcing  the 
cause  of  his  departure.      Volktman  was  a  man  of  excellent 


GODOLPHIN.  135 

heart ;  but  one  would  scarcely  like  to  inquire  whether  exulta- 
tion at  the  triumph  of  _his  prediction  was  not  with  him  a  far 
more  powerful  sentiment  than  grief  at  the  misfortune  to  his 
friend ! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE   YOUTH    OF    LUCILLA    VOLKTMAN.  —  A   MYSTERIOUS    CON- 
VERSATION.   THE   RETURN    OF    ONE    UNLOOKED    FOR. 

Time  went  slowly  on,  and  Lucilla  grew  up  in  beauty.  The 
stranger  traits  of  her  character  increased  in  strength,  but  per- 
haps in  the  natural  bashfulness  of  maidenhood  they  became 
more  latent.  At  the  age  of  fifteen,  her  elastic  shape  had 
grown  round  and  full,  and  the  wild  girl  had  already  ripened 
to  the  woman.  An  expression  of  thought,  when  the  play  of 
her  features  was  in  repose,  that  dwelt  upon  her  lip  and  fore- 
head, gave  her  the  appearance  of  being  two  or  three  years 
older  than  she  was;  but  again,  when  her  natural  vivacity 
returned,  when  the  clear  and  buoyant  music  of  her  gay  laugh 
rang  out,  or  when  the  cool  air  and  bright  sky  of  morning  sent 
the  blood  to  her  cheek  and  the  zephyr  to  her  step,  her  face 
became  as  the  face  of  childhood,  and  contrasted  with  a  singu- 
lar and  dangerous  loveliness  the  rich  development  of  her 
form. 

And  still  was  Lucilla  Volktman  a  stranger  to  all  that  sa- 
voured of  the  Avorld;  the  company  of  others  of  her  sex  and  age 
never  drew  forth  her  emotions  from  their  resting-place :  — 

"  And  Nature  said,  a  lovelier  flower 
Ou  eartii  was  never  sown  : 


"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  ini])ulse;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  jdain. 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 


136  GODOLPHIN. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place ; 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty,  born  of  murmuring  sound. 

Shall  pass  into  her  face."  ^ 

These  lines  liave  occurred  to  me  again  and  again,  as  I 
looked  on  the  face  of  her  to  whom  I  have  applied  them.  And 
remembering  as  I  do  its  radiance  and  glory  in  her  happier 
moments,  I  can  scarcely  persuade  myself  to  notice  the  faults 
and  heats  of  temper  which  at  times  dashed  away  all  its  lustre 
and  gladness.  Unrestrained  and  fervid,  she  gave  way  to  the 
irritation  or  grief  of  the  moment  with  a  violence  that  would 
have  terrified  any  one  who  beheld  her  at  such  times.  But  it 
rarely  happened  that  the  scene  had  its  witness  even  in  her 
father,  for  she  fled  to  the  loneliest  spot  she  could  find  to  in- 
dulge these  emotions ;  and  perhaps  even  the  agony  they  oc- 
casioned—  an  agony  convulsing  the  heart  and  whole  of  her 
impassioned  frame  —  took  a  sort  of  luxury  from  the  solitn.ry 
and  unchecked  nature  of  its  indulgence. 

Volktman  continued  his  pursuits  with  an  ardour  that  in- 
creased—  as  do  all  species  of  monomania  —  with  increasing 
years ;  and  in  the  accidental  truth  of  some  of  his  predictions, 
he  forgot  the  erroneous  result  of  the  rest.  He  corresponded 
at  times  with  the  Englishman,  who,  after  a  short  sojourn  in 
England,  had  returned  to  the  Continent,  and  was  now  making 
a  prolonged  tour  through  its  northern  capitals. 

Very  different,  indeed,  from  the  astrologer's  occupations 
were  those  of  the  wanderer;  and  time,  dissipation,  and  a  ma- 
iurer  intellect  had  cured  the  latter  of  his  boyish  tendency  to 
studies  so  idle  and  so  vain.  Yet  he  always  looked  back  with 
an  undefined  and  unconquered  interest  to  the  period  of  his 
acquaintance  with  the  astrologer;  to  their  long  and  thrilling 
watches  in  the  night  season;  to  the  contagious  fervour  of 
faith  breathing  from  the  visionary;  his  dark  and  restless  ex- 
cursions into  that  remote  science  associated  with  the  legends 
of  eldest  time,  and  of  — 

1  Wordsworth. 


GODOLPHIX.  137 

"  The  crew,  who,  under  names  of  old  renown, 
Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train. 
With  monstrous  shapes  and  sorceries,  abused 
Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests." 

One  night,  four  years  after  the  last  scene  we  have  described 
in  the  astrologer's  house,  Volktman  was  sitting  alone  in  his 
favourite  room.  Before  him  was  a  calculation  on  which  the 
ink  was  scarcely  dry.  His  face  leaned  on  his  breast,  and  he 
seemed  buried  in  thought.  His  health  had  been  of  late  gradu- 
ally declining;  and  it  might  be  seen  upon  his  worn  brow  and 
attenuated  frame  that  death  was  already  preparing  to  with- 
draw the  visionary  from  a  world  whose  substantial  enjoyments 
he  had  so  sparingly  tasted. 

Lucilla  had  been  banished  from  his  chamber  during  the 
day.  She  now  knew  that  his  occupation  was  over,  and  en- 
tered the  room  with  his  evening  repast;  that  frugal  meal, 
common  with  the  Italians, —  the  polenta  (made  of  Indian  corn), 
the  bread  and  the  fruits,  which  after  the  fashion  of  students, 
he  devoured  unconsciously,  and  would  not  have  remembered 
one  hour  after  whether  or  not  it  had  been  tasted! 

*'Sit  thee  down,  child,"  said  he  to  Lucilla,  kindly, —  "sit 
thee  down." 

Lucilla  obeyed,  and  took  her  seat  upon  the  very  stool  on 
which  she  had  been  seated  the  last  night  on  which  the  Eng- 
lishman had  seen  her, 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Volktman,  as  he  placed  his 
hand  on  his  daughter's  head,  "  that  I  shall  soon  leave  thee ; 
and  I  should  like  to  see  thee  protected  by  another  before  my 
own  departure." 

"Ah,  Father,"  said  Lucilla,  as  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes, 
"  do  not  talk  thus !  indeed,  indeed,  you  must  not  indulge  in 
this  perpetual  gloom  and  seclusion  of  life.  You  promised  to 
t-ike  me  with  you  some  day  this  week  to  the  Vatican.  Do  let 
it  be  to-morrow;  the  weather  has  been  so  fine  lately;  and  who 
knows  how  long  it  may  last?  " 

"True,"  said  Volktman;  "and  to-morrow  will  not,  I  think, 
be  unfavourable  to  our  stirring  abroad,  for  the  moon  will  be 
of  the  same  age  as  at  my  birth, —  an  accident  that  thou  wilt 


138  GODOLPHIX. 

note,  my  child,  to  be  especially  auspicious  towards  any 
enterprise." 

The  poor  astrologer  so  rarely  stirred. from  his  home,  that 
he  did  well  to  consider  a  walk  of  a  mile  or  two  in  the.  light 
of  an  enterprise.  "I  have  wished,"  continued  he,  after  a 
pause,  "that  I  might  see  our  English  friend  once  more, — that 
is,  ere  long;  for,  to  tell  thee  the  truth,  Lucilla,  certain  events 
happening  unto  him  do,  strangely  enough,  occur  about  the 
same  time  as  that  in  which  events  equally  boding  will  befall 
thee.  This  coincidence  it  was  which  contributed  to  make  me 
assume  so  warm  an  interest  in  the  lot  of  a  stranger.  I  would 
I  might  see  him  soon." 

Lucilla' s  beautiful  breast  heaved,  and  her  face  was  covered 
with  blushes :  these  were  symjjtoms  of  a  disorder  that  never 
occurred  to  the  recluse. 

"Thou  rememberest  the  foreigner?"  asked  Volktman,  after 
a  pause. 

"  Yes, "  said  Lucilla,  half  inaudibly . 

"  I  have  not  heard  from  him  of  late :  I  will  make  question 
concerning  him  ere  the  cock  crow." 

•'  Nay,  my  father !  "  said  Lucilla,  quickly :  "  not  to-night ; 
you  want  rest,  your  eyes  are  heavy." 

"  Girl, "  said  the  mystic,  "  the  soul  sleepeth  not,  nor  wanteth 
sleep;  even  as  the  stars,  to  which  (as  the  Arabian  saith)  there 
is  also  a  soul,  wherewith  an  intent  passion  of  our  own  doth 
make  a  union,  so  that  we  by  an  unslumbering  diligence  do 
constitute  ourselves  a  part  of  the  heaven  itself, —  even,  I  say, 
as  the  stars  may  vanish  from  the  human  eye  nor  be  seen  in 
the  common  day,  though  all  the  while  their  course  is  stopped 
not  nor  their  voices  dumb,  even  so  doth  the  soul  of  man  re- 
tire, as  it  were,  into  a  seeming  sleep  and  torpor;  yet  it  work- 
eth  all  the  same,  and  perhaps  with  a  less  impeded  power,  in 
that  it  is  more  free  from  common  obstruction  and  trivial 
hindrance.  And  if  I  purpose  to  confer  this  night  with  the 
*  Intelligence '  that  ruleth  earth  and  earth's  beings  concerning 
this  stranger,  it  will  not  be  by  the  vigil  and  the  scheme,  but 
by  the  very  sleep  which  thou  imaginest,  in  thy  mental  dark- 
ness, would  deprive  me  of  the  resources  of  my  art." 


GODOLPHIX.  139 

"Can  you  really,  then,  my  father,'"  said  Lucilla,  in  a  tone 
half  anxious,  half  timid,— "can  you  really,  at  will,  conjure 
up  in  your  dreams  the  persons  you  wish  to  see;  or  draw, 
from  sleep,  any  oracle  concerning  their  present  state?" 

"Of  a  surety,"  answered  the  astrologer;  "it  is  one  of  the 
great  —  though  not  perchance  the  most  gifted  —  of  our 
endowments." 

"  Can  you  teach  me  the  method?  "  asked  Lucilla,  gravely. 

"All  that  relates  to  the  art  I  can,"  rejoined  the  mystic: 
"but  the  chief  and  main  power  rests  with  thyself.  For 
know,  my  daughter,  that  one  who  seeks  the  wisdom  that  is 
above  the  earth  must  cultivate  and  excite,  with  long  labour 
and  deep  thought,  his  least  earthly  faculty." 

Here  the  visionary,  observing  that  the  countenance  of 
Lucilla  was  stamped  with  a  fixed  attention,  which  she  did 
not  often  bestow  upon  his  metaphysical  exordiums,  paused 
for  a  moment;  and  then  pursued  the  theme  with  the  tone  of 
one  desirous  of  making  himself  at  once  as  clear  and  impres- 
sive as  the  nature  of  an  abstruse  science  would  allow. 

"  There  are  two  things  in  the  outer  creation,  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  great  Hermes,  suffice  for  the  operation  of  all  that 
is  wonderful  and  glorious, —  Fire  and  Earth.  Even  so,  my 
child,  there  are  in  the  human  mind  two  powers  that  affect  all 
of  which  our  nature  is  capable, —  reason  and  imagination. 
i^'ow  mankind  —  less  wise  in  themselves  than  in  the  outer 
world  —  have  cultivated,  for  the  most  part,  but  one  of  these 
faculties,  and  that  the  inferior  and  more  passive, —  reason. 
They  have  tilled  the  earth  of  the  human  heart,  but  suffered 
its  fire  to  remain  dormant,  or  waste  itself  in  chance  and  frivo- 
lous directions.  Hence  the  insufficiency  of  human  knowledge. 
Inventions  founded  only  on  reason  move  within  a  circle  from 
which  their  escape  is  momentary  and  trivial.  When  some 
few,  endowed  with  a  just  instinct,  have  had  recourse  to  the 
diviner  element,  imagination,  thou  wilt  observe  that  they 
have  used  it  only  in  the  service  of  the  lighter  arts,  and  those 
chiefly  disconnected  from  reason.  Such  is  poetry  and  music, 
and  other  delicious  fabrications  of  genius,  that  amuse  men, 
soften  men,  but  advance  them  not.     They  have  —  with  but 


140  GODOLPHIN. 

rare  exceptions  —  left  this  glorious  and  winged  faculty  ut- 
terly passive  in  the  service  of  Philosophy.  There,  reason 
alone  has  been  admitted,  and  imagination  hath  been  care- 
fully banished,  as  an  erratic  and  deceitful  meteor.-  Now 
mark  me,  child:  I,  noting  this  our  error  in  early  youth,  did  re- 
solve to  see  what  might  be  effected  by  the  culture  of  this  re- 
nounced and  maltreated  element;  and  finding,  as  I  proceeded 
in  the  studies  that  grew  from  this  desire,  by  the  occult  yet 
guiding  writings  of  the  great  philosophers  of  old,  that  they 
had  forestalled  me  in  this  discovery,  I  resolved  to  learn  from 
their  experience  by  what  means  the  imagination  is  best  fos- 
tered, and,  as  it  were,  sublimed. 

*' Anxiously  following  their  precepts  —  the  truth  of  which 
soon  appeared  —  I  found  that  solitude,  fast,  intense  revery 
upon  the  one  theme  on  which  we  desired  knowledge,  were 
the  true  elements  and  purifiers  of  this  glorious  faculty.  It 
was  by  these  means  and  by  this  power  that  men  so  far  behind 
us  in  lesser  lore  achieved,  on  the  mooned  plains  of  Chaldea 
and  by  the  dark  waters  of  Egypt,  their  penetration  into  the 
womb  of  Event;  by  these  means  and  this  power  the  solitaries 
of  the  Gothic  time  not  only  attained  to  the  most  intricate 
arcana  of  the  stars,  but  to  the  empire  of  the  spirits  about, 
above,  and  beneath  the  earth, —  a  power,  indeed,  disputed  by 
the  presumptuous  sophists  of  the  present  time,  but  of  which 
their  writings  yet  contain  ample  proof.  Nay,  by  the  con- 
stant feeding  and  impressing  and  moulding  and  refining  and 
heightening  the  imaginative  power,  I  do  conceive  that  even 
the  false  prophets  and  the  evil  practitioners  of  the  blacker 
cabala  clomb  into  the  power  seemingly  inconceivable, —  the 
power  of  accomplishing  miracles  and  prodigies,  that  to  ap- 
pearance belie,  but  in  truth  verify,  the  course  of  nature.  By 
this  spirit  within  the  flesh,  we  gvowfrom  the  flesh,  and  may 
see,  and  at  length  invoke  the  souls,  of  the  dead,  and  receive 
warnings,  and  hear  omens,  and  girdle  our  sleep  with  dreams. 

"Not  unto  me,"  continued  the  cabalist,  in  a  lowlier  tone, 
"have  been  vouchsafed  all  these  gifts;  for  I  began  the  art 
when  the  first  fire  of  youth  was  dim  within  me ;  and  it  was 
therefore  with  duller  and  already  earth-clogged  pinions  that 


GODOLPHIN.  lil 

I  sought  to  rise.  Something,  however,  I  have  won  as  a 
recompense  for  austere  abstinence  and  much  labour;  and 
this  power  over  the  land  of  dreams  is  at  least  within  my 
command." 

"Then,"  said  Lucilla,  in  a  disappointed  tone,  "it  is  only 
by  a  long  course  of  indulgence  to  the  fervour  of  the  imagina- 
tion, and  not  by  spell  or  charm,  that  one  can  gain  a  similar 
power?  " 

"Xot  wholly  so,  my  daughter,"  replied  the  mystic;  "they 
who  do  so  excite,  and  have  so  raised  the  diviner  faculty,  can 
alone  possess  the  certain  and  invariable  power  over  dreams, 
even  without  charms  and  talismans;  but  the  most  dull  or  idle 
may  hope  to  do  so  with  just  confidence  (though  not  certainty) 
by  help  of  skill,  and  by  directing  the  full  force  of  their  half- 
roused  fancy  towards  the  person  or  object  they  wish  to  see 
reflected  in  the  glass  of  Sleep." 

"And  what  means  should  the  uninitiated  employ?"  asked 
Lucilla,  in  a  tone  betokening  her  interest. 

"I  will  tell  thee,"  answered  the  astrologer.  "Thou  must 
inscribe  on  a  white  parchment  an  image  of  the  sun." 

"As  how?  "  interrupted  Lucilla. 

"Thus!"  said  the  astrologer,  drawing  from  among  his 
papers  one  inscribed  with  the  figure  of  a  man  asleep  on  the 
bosom  of  an  angel.  "This  was  made  at  the  potential  and 
appointed  time,  when  the  sun  was  in  the  Ninth  of  the  Celes- 
tial Houses,  and  the  Lion  shook  his  bright  mane  as  he  as- 
cended the  blue  mount.  Observe,  that  on  the  figure  must 
be  written  thy  desire, —  the  name  of  the  person  thou  wishest 
to  see,  or  the  thing  thou  wouldst  have  foreshown ;  then,  hav- 
ing prepared  and  brought  the  mind  to  a  faith  in  the  effect, — 
for  without  faith  the  imagination  lies  inert  and  lifeless, — 
this  image  will  be  placed  under  the  head  of  the  invoker,  and 
when  the  moon  goeth  through  the  sign  which  was  in  the 
Ninth  House  of  his  nativity,  the  Dream  will  glide  into  him, 
and  his  soul  walk  with  the  spirit  of  the  vision." 

"Give  me  the  image,"  said  Lucilla,  eagerly. 

The  mystic  hesitated.  "Xo,  Lucilla,"  said  he,  at  length; 
"  no,  it  is  a  dark  and  comfortless  path,  that  of  prescience  and 


142  GODOLPHIN. 

unearthly  knowledge,  save  to  the  few  that  walk  it  with  a 
gifted  light  and  a  fearless  soul.  It  is  not  for  women  or 
children, —  nay,  for  few  amongst  men;  it  withers  up  the  sap 
of  life,  and  makes  the  hair  gray  before  its  time.  No,  no; 
take  the  broad  sunshine,  and  the  brief  but  sweet  flowers  of 
earth ;  they  are  better  for  thee,  my  child,  and  for  thy  years, 
than  the  fever  and  hope  of  the  night-dream  and  the  planetary 
influence." 

So  saying,  the  astrologer  replaced  the  image  within  the 
leaves  of  one  of  his  books ;  and  with  a  prudence  not  common 
to  him,  thrust  the  volume  into  a  drawer,  which  he  locked. 
The  fair  face  of  Lucilla  became  clouded,  but  the  ill  health 
of  her  father  imposed  a  restraint  on  her  wild  temper. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  the  Eng- 
lishman stood  before  the  daughter  and  sire.  They  did  not 
note  him  at  first.  The  solitary  servant  of  the  sage  had  ad- 
mitted him;  he  had  proceeded,  without  ceremony,  to  the 
well-remembered  apartment. 

As  he  now  stood  gazing  on  the  pair,  he  observed  with  an 
inward  smile  how  exactly  their  present  attitudes  (as  well  as 
the  old  aspect  of  the  scene)  resembled  those  in  which  he  had 
broken  upon  them  on  the  last  evening  he  had  visited  that 
chamber, —  the  father  bending  over  the  old,  worn,  quaint 
table;  and  the  daughter  seated  beside  him  on  the  same  low 
stool.  The  character  of  their  countenances  struck  him,  too, 
as  wearing  the  same  ominous  expression  as  when  those  coun- 
tenances had  chilled  him  on  that  evening.  For  Volktman's 
features  were  impressed  with  the  sadness  that  breathed  from, 
and  caused,  his  prohibition  to  his  daughter;  and  that  prohi- 
bition had  given  to  her  features  an  abstraction  and  shadow 
similar  to  the  dejection  they  had  worn  on  the  night  we 
recur  to. 

This  remembered  coincidence  did  not  cheer  the  spirits  of 
the  young  traveller;  he  muttered  to  himself;  and  then,  as  if 
anxious  to  break  the  silence,  moved  forward  with  a  heavy 
step. 

Volktman  started  at  the  sound;  and  looking  up,  seemed 
literally  electrified  by  this  sudden  apparition  of  one  whom  he 


GODOLPHIX.  143 

had  so  lately  expressed  his  desire  to  see.  His  lips  muttered 
the  intruder's  name,  one  well  known  to  the  reader  (it  was  the 
name  of  Godolphin),  and  then  closed;  but  Lucilla  sprang 
from  her  seat,  and  clasping  her  hands  joyously  together, 
darted  forward  till  she  came  within  a  foot  of  the  unexpected 
visitor.  There  she  abruptly  arrested  herself,  blushed  deeply, 
and  stood  before  him  humbled,  agitated,  but  all  vivid  with 
delight. 

"What,  is  this  Lucilla?"  said  Godolphin,  admiringly; 
"  how  beautiful  she  is  grown !  "  and  advancing,  he  saluted, 
with  a  light  and  fraternal  kiss,  her  girlish  and  damask  cheek; 
then,  without  heeding  her  confusion,  he  turned  to  the  astrolo- 
ger, who  by  this  time  had  a  little  recovered  from  his  amaze. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   EFFECT    OF    YEARS    AND    EXPERIENCE.  —  THE   ITALIAN 
CHARACTER. 

Godolphin  now  came  almost  daily  to  the  astrologer's 
abode.  He  was  shocked  to  perceive  the  physical  alteration 
four  years  had  wrought  in  his  singular  friend ;  and  with  the 
warmth  of  a  heart  naturally  kind,  he  sought  to  contribute  to 
the  comfort  and  enjoyment  of  a  life  that  was  evidently  draw- 
ing to  a  close. 

Godolphin's  company  seemed  to  give  Volktman  a  pleasure 
which  nothing  else  could  afford  him.  He  loved  to  converse 
on  the  various  incidents  that  had  occurred  to  each  since  they 
met;  and  in  whatsoever  Godolphin  communicated  to  him,  the 
mystic  sought  to  impress  upon  his  friend's  attention  the  ful- 
filment of  an  astrological  prediction. 

Godolphin,  though  no  longer  impressed  with  a  belief  in 
the  visionary's  science,  did  not  affect  to  combat  his  asser- 
tions.    He  had  not,  in  his  progress  through  life,  found  much 


1^^  GODOLPHIN. 

to  shake  his  habitual  indolence  in  ordinary  affairs;  and  it 
was  no  easy  matter  to  provoke  one  of  his  quiet  temper  and 
self-indulging  wisdom  into  conversational  dispute.  Besides, 
who  argues  with  fanaticism? 

Since  the  young  idealist  had  left  England,  the  elements  of 
his  character  had  been  slowly  performing  the  ordination  of 
time,  and  working  their  due  change  in  its  general  aspect. 
The  warm  fountains  of  youth  flowed  not  so  freely  as  before : 
the  selfishness  that  always  comes,  sooner  or  later,  to  solitary 
men  of  the  world,  had  gradually  mingled  itself  with  all  the 
channels  of  his  heart.  The  brooding  and  thoughtful  disposi- 
tion of  his  faculties  having  turned  from  romance  to  what  he 
deemed  philosophy,  that  which  once  was  enthusiasm  had 
hardened  into  wisdom.  He  neither  hated  men  nor  loved 
them  with  a  sanguine  philanthropy;  he  viewed  them  with 
cool  and  discerning  eyes.  He  did  not  think  it  within  the 
power  of  governments  to  make  the  mass,  in  any  countrj-, 
much  happier  or  more  elevated  than  they  are.  Eepublics,  he 
was  wont  to  say,  favoured  aristocratic  virtues,  and  despotisms 
extinguished  them;  but,  whether  in  a  monarchy  or  republic, 
the  hewers  of  wood  and  the  drawers  of  water,  the  multitude, 
still  remained  intrinsically  the  same. 

This  theory  heightened  his  indifference  to  ambition.  The 
watchwords  of  party  appeared  to  him  ridiculous;  and  politics 
in  general  —  what  a  great  moralist  termed  one  question  in 
particular  —  a  shuttlecock  kept  up  by  the  contention  of  noisy 
children.  His  mind  thus  rested  as  to  all  public  matters  in  a 
state  of  quietude,  and  covered  over  with  the  mantle  of  a  most 
false,  a  most  perilous  philosophy.  His  appetites  to  pleasure 
had  grown  somewhat  dulled  hj  experience,  but  he  was  as  yet 
neither  sated  nor  discontented.  One  feeling  at  his  breast 
still  remained  scarcely  diminished  of  its  effect,  when  the 
string  was  touched, —  his  tender  remembrance  of  Constance; 
and  this  had  prevented  any  subsequent  but  momentary  attach- 
ment deepening  into  love.  Thus,  at  the  age  of  seven  and 
twenty,  Percy  Godolphin  reappears  on  our  stage. 

There  was  a  great  deal  in  the  Italian  character  that  our 
traveller  liked:   its  love  of  ease,  reduced  into  a  system;   its 


GODOLPHIX.  145 

courtesy ;  its  content  with  the  world  as  it  is ;  its  moral  apathy 
as  regards  all  that  agitates  life,  save  one  passion,  and  the 
universal  tenderness,  ardour,  and  delicacy  which,  in  that 
passion,  it  ennobles  itself  in  displaying.  The  commonest 
peasant  of  Rome  or  Naples,  though  not  perhaps  in  the  freer 
land  of  Tuscany,  can  comprehend  all  the  romance  and  mys- 
tery of  the  most  subtle  species  of  love ;  all  that  it  requires  in 
England  the  idle  habits  of  aristocracy,  or  the  sensitive  fibre 
of  genius,  even  to  conceive.  And  what  is  yet  stranger,  the 
worn-out  debauchee,  sage  with  an  experienee  and  variety  of 
licentiousness,  which  come  not  within  the  compass  of  a  north- 
ern profligacy,  remains  alive  to  the  earliest  and  most  innocent 
sentiments  of  the  passion.  And  if  Platonism  in  its  coldest 
purity  exist  on  earth,  it  is  among  the  Aretins  of  southern 
Italy. 

This  unworldly  refinement,  amidst  so  much  worldly  cal- 
lousness, was  a  peculiarity  that  afforded  perpetual  amuse- 
ment to  the  nice  eye  and  subtle  judgment  of  Godolphin.  He 
loved  not  to  note  the  common  elements  of  character;  what- 
ever was  most  abstract  and  difficult  to  analyze,  pleased  him 
most.  He  mixed  then  much  with  the  Romans,  and  was  a 
favourite  amongst  them ;  but  during  his  present  visit  to  the 
Immortal  City,  he  did  not,  how  distantly  soever,  associate 
with  the  English,  His  carelessness  of  show,  and  the  inde- 
pendence of  a  single  man  from  burdensome  connections,  ren- 
dered his  income  fully  competent  to  his  wants;  but,  like 
many  proud  men,  he  was  not  willing  to  make  it  seem  even 
to  himself  as  a  comparative  poverty,  beside  the  lavish  ex- 
penses of  his  ostentatious  countrymen.  Travel,  moreover, 
had  augmented  those  stores  of  reflection  which  rob  solitude 
of  ennui. 


10 


146  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

MAGNETISM.  —  SYMPATHY.  —  THE    RETUKN    OF    ELEMENTS    TO 
ELEMENTS. 

Daily  did  the  health  of  Volktman  decline;  Lucilla  was 
the  only  one  ignorant  of  his  danger.  She  had  never  seen  the 
gradual  approaches  of  death :  her  mother's  abrupt  and  rapid 
illness  made  the  whole  of  her  experience  of  disease.  Phy- 
sicians and  dark  rooms  were  necessarily  coupled  in  her  mind 
with  all  graver  maladies;  and  as  the  astrologer,  rapt  in  his 
calculations,  altered  not  any  of  his  habits,  and  was  insensible 
to  pain,  she  fondly  attributed  his  occasional  complaints  to  the 
melancholy  induced  by  seclusion.  With  sedentary  men,  dis- 
eases, being  often  those  connected  with  the  organization  of 
the  heart,  do  not  usually  terminate  suddenly :  it  was  so  with 
Volktman. 

One  day  he  was  alone  with  Godolphin,  and  their  conversa- 
tion turned  u.pon  one  of  the  doctrines  of  the  old  Magnetism,  a 
doctrine  which,  depending  as  it  does  so  much  upon  a  seeming 
reference  to  experience,  survived  the  rest  of  its  associates, 
and  is  still  not  wholly  out  of  repute  among  the  wild  imagina- 
tions of  Germany. 

"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  abstruse  points  in  what 
students  call  metaphysics,"  said  Volktman,  *'is  sympathjj ! 
the  first  principle,  according  to  some,  of  all  human  virtue.  It 
is  this,  say  they,  which  makes  men  just,  humane,  charitable. 
When  one  who  has  never  heard  of  the  duty  of  assisting  his 
neighbour  sees  another  drowning,  he  plunges  into  the  water 
and  saves  him.  Why?  because  involuntarily,  and  at  once, 
his  imagination  places  himself  in  the  situation  of  the  stranger: 
the  pain  he  would  experience  in  the  watery  death  glances 
across  him ;  from  this  pain  he  hastens,  without  analyzing  its 
cause,  to  deliver  himself. 


GODOLPHIX.  147 

"  Humanity  is  thus  taught  him  by  sympathy :  where  is  this 
sympathy  placed?  In  the  nerves.  The  nerves  are  the  com- 
municants Avith  outward  nature ;  the  more  delicate  the  nerves, 
the  finer  the  sympathies;  hence,  women  and  children  are 
more  alive  to  sympathy  than  men.  Well,  mark  me :  do  not 
these  nerves  have  attraction  and  sympathy,  not  only  with 
human  suffering,  but  with  the  powers  of  what  is  falsely 
termed  inanimate  nature?  Do  not  the  winds,  the  influences 
of  the  weather  and  the  seasons,  act  confessedly  upon  them? 
And  if  one  part  of  nature,  why  not  another,  inseparably  con- 
nected too  with  that  part?  If  the  weather  and  seasons  have 
sympathy  with  the  nerves,  why  not  the  moon  and  the  stars, 
by  which  the  weather  and  the  seasons  are  influenced  and 
changed?  Ye  of  the  schools  may  allow  that  sympathy  origi- 
nates some  of  our  actions;  I  say  it  governs  the  whole  world, — 
the  whole  creation !  Before  the  child  is  born,  it  is  this  secret 
affinity  which  can  mark  and  stamp  him  with  the  witness  of 
his  mother's  terror  or  his  mother's  desire." 

"  Yet, "  said  Godolphin,  "  you  would  scarcely,  in  your  zeal 
for  sympathy,  advocate  the  same  cause  as  Edricius  Mohynnus, 
who  cured  wounds  by  a  powder,  not  applied  to  the  wound, 
but  to  the  towel  that  had  been  dipped  in  its  blood?  " 

"Xo,"  answered  Volktman;  "it  is  these  quacks  and  pre- 
tenders that  have  wronged  all  sciences,  by  clamouring  for 
false  deductions.  But  I  do  believe  of  sympathy  that  it  has 
a  power  to  transport  ourselves  out  of  the  body  and  reunite  us 
with  the  absent.  Hence,  ti*ances,  and  raptures,  in  which  the 
patient,  being  sincere,  will  tell  thee,  in  grave  earnestness, 
and  with  minute  detail,  of  all  that  he  saw  and  heard  and  en- 
countered, afar  off,  in  other  parts  of  the  earth,  or  even  above 
the  earth.  As  thou  knowest  the  accredited  story  of  the 
youth,  who,  being  transported  with  a  vehement  and  long- 
nursed  desire  to  see  his  mother,  did  through  that  same  desire 
become  as  it  were  rapt,  and  beheld  her,  being  at  the  distance 
of  many  miles,  and  giving  and  exchanging  signs  of  their  real 
and  bodily  conference." 

Godolphin  turned  aside  to  conceal  an  involuntary  smile  at 
this  grave  affirmation;  but  the  mystic,  perhaps  perceiving  it, 
continued  vet  more  eagerlv :  — 


148  GODOLPHIN. 

"  Nay,  I  myself,  at  times,  have  experienced  such  trance,  if 
trance  it  be ;  and  have  conversed  with  them  who  have  passed 
from  the  outward  earth, —  with  my  father  and  my  wife. 
And,"  continued  he,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "I  do -believe 
that  we  may,  by  means  of  this  power  of  attraction  —  this 
elementary  and  all-penetrative  sympathy  —  pass  away,  in  our 
last  moments,  at  once  into  the  bosom  of  those  we  love.  For, 
by  the  intent  and  rapt  longing  to  behold  the  Blest  and  to  be 
amongst  them,  we  may  be  drawn  insensibly  into  their  pres- 
ence, and  the  hour  being  come  when  the  affinity  between  the 
spirit  and  the  body  shall  be  dissolved,  the  mind  and  desire, 
being  so  drawn  upward,  can  return  to  earth  no  more.  And 
this  sympathy,  refined  and  extended,  will  make,  I  imagine, 
our  powers,  our  very  being,  in  a  future  state.  Our  sympathy 
being  only,  then,  with  what  is  immortal,  we  shall  partake  ne- 
cessarily of  that  nature  which  attracts  us ;  and  the  body  no 
longer  clogging  the  intenseness  of  our  desires,  we  shall  be 
able  by  a  wish  to  transport  ourselves  wheresoever  we  please, 
—  from  star  to  star,  from  glory  to  glory,  charioted  and  winged 
by  our  wishes." 

Godolphin  did  not  reply,  for  he  was  struck  with  the  grow- 
ing paleness  of  the  mystic,  and  with  a  dreaming  and  intent 
fixedness  that  seemed  creeping  over  his  eyes,  which  were 
usually  bright  and  restless.  The  day  was  now  fast  declining. 
Lucilla  entered  the  room,  and  came  caressingly  to  her  father's 
side. 

"Is  the  evening  warm,  my  child?"  said  the  astrologer. 

"Very  mild  and  warm,"  answered  Lucilla. 

"Give  me  your  arm,  then,"  said  he;  "I  will  sit  a  little 
while  without  the  threshold." 

The  Eomans  live  in  flats,  as  at  Edinburgh,  and  with  a  com- 
mon stair.  Volktman's  abode  was  in  the  secondo  piano.  He 
descended  the  stairs  with  a  step  lighter  than  it  had  been  of 
late;  and  sinking  into  a  seat  without  the  house,  seemed  si- 
lently and  gratefully  to  inhale  the  soft  and  purple  air  of  an 
Italian  sunset. 

By  and  by  the  sun  had  entirely  vanished:  and  that  most 
brief  but  most  delicious  twilight,  common  to  the  clime,  had 


GODOLPHIN.  149 

succeeded.  Veil-like  and  soft,  the  mist  that  floats  at  that 
hour  between  earth  and  heaven  lent  its  transparent  shadow 
to  the  scene  around  them ;  it  seemed  to  tremble  as  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  was  gone.  The  moon  arose,  and  cast  its 
light  over  Volktman's  earnest  countenance,  over  the  rich 
bloom  and  watchful  eye  of  Luc  ilia,  over  the  contemplative 
brow  and  motionless  figure  of  Godolphin.  It  was  a  group  of 
indefinable  interest :  the  Earth  was  so  still,  that  the  visionary 
might  well  have  fancied  it  had  hushed  itself,  to  drink  within 
its  quiet  heart  the  voices  of  that  Heaven  in  whose  oracles 
he  believed.  Kot  one  of  the  group  spoke:  the  astrologer's 
mind  and  gaze  were  riveted  above;  and  neither  of  his  com- 
panions wished  to  break  the  meditations  of  the  old  and 
dreaming  man, 

Godolphin,  with  folded  arms  and  downcast  eyes,  was  pur- 
suing his  own  thoughts;  and  Lucilla,  to  whom  Godolphin's 
presence  was  a  subtle  and  subduing  intoxication,  looked  in- 
deed upward  to  the  soft  and  tender  heavens,  but  with  the  soul 
of  the  loving  daughter  of  earth. 

Slowly,  nor  marked  by  his  companions,  the  gaze  of  the  my- 
stic deepened  and  deepened  in  its  fixedness. 

The  minutes  went  on ;  and  the  evening  waned,  till  a  chill 
breeze,  floating  down  from  the  Latian  Hills,  recalled  Lucilla's 
attention  to  her  father.  She  covered  him  tenderly  with  her 
own  mantle,  and  whispered  gently  in  his  ear  her  admonition 
to  shun  the  coldness  of  the  coming  night.  He  did  not  an- 
swer; and  on  raising  her  voice  a  little  higher,  with  the  same 
result,  she  looked  appealingly  to  Godolphin.  He  laid  his  hand 
on  Volktman's  shoulder;  and,  bending  forward  to  address 
him,  was  struck  dumb  by  the  glazed  and  fixed  expression  of 
the  mystic's  eyes.  The  certainty  flashed  across  him;  he 
hastily  felt  Volktman's  pulse, —  it  was  still.  There  was  no 
doubt  left  on  his  mind;  and  yet  the  daughter,  looking  at  him 
all  the  while,  did  not  even  dream  of  this  sudden  and  awful 
stroke.  In  silence,  and  unconsciously,  the  strange  and  soli- 
tary spirit  of  the  mystic  had  passed  from  its  home,  in  what 
exact  instant  of  time,  or  by  what  last  contest  of  nature,  was 
not  known. 


150  GODOLPHLN. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

A  SCENE. LUCILLA's   STRANGE  CONDUCT. —  GODOLPHIN   PASSES 

THROUGH     A    SEVERE     ORDEAL.  —  EGERIA's      GROTTO,      AND 
WHAT    THERE    HAPPENS. 

Let  US  pass  over  Godolpliin's  most  painful  task.  What 
Lucilla's  feelings  were,  the  reader  may  imagine;  and  yet, 
her  wayward  and  unanalyzed  temper  mocked  at  once  imagi- 
nation and  expression  to  depict  its  sufferings  or  its  joys. 

The  brother  of  Volktman's  wife  was  sent  for:  he  and  his 
wife  took  possession  of  the  abode  of  death.  This,  if  possible, 
heightened  Lucilla's  anguish.  The  apathetic  and  vain  char- 
acter of  the  middle  classes  in  Rome,  which  her  relations 
shared,  stung  her  heart  by  contrasting  its  own  desolate  aban- 
donment to  grief.  Above  all,  she  was  revolted  by  the  un- 
natural ceremonies  of  a  Roman  funeral.  The  corpse  exposed, 
the  cheeks  painted,  the  parading  procession, —  all  shocked 
the  delicacy  of  her  real  and  reckless  affliction.  But  when 
this  was  over;  when  the  rite  of  death  was  done,  and  when, 
in  the  house  wherein  her  sire  had  presided,  and  she  herself 
had  been  left  to  a  liberty  wholly  unrestricted,  she  saw  strangers 
(for  such  comparatively  her  relatives  were  to  her)  settling 
themselves  down,  with  vacant  countenances  and  light  words, 
to  the  common  occupations  of  life;  when  she  saw  them  move, 
alter  (nay,  talk  calmly,  and  sometimes  with  jests,  of  selling), 
those  little  household  articles  of  furniture  which,  homely  and 
worn  as  they  were,  were  hallowed  to  her  by  a  thousand  dear 
and  infantine  and  filial  recollections;  when,  too,  she  found 
herself  treated  as  a  child,  and,  in  some  measure,  as  a  depend- 
ant; when  she,  the  wild,  the  free,  saw  herself  subjected  to 
restraint, —  nay,  heard  the  commonest  actions  of  her  life 
chidden  and  reproved;  when  she  saw  the  trite  and  mean  na- 
tures which  thus  presumed  to  lord  it  over  her,  and  assume 
empire  in  the  house  of  one,  of  whose  wild  and  lofty,  though 


GODOLPHIX.  151 

erring  speculations,  of  whose  generous  though  abstract  ele- 
ments of  character,  she  could  comprehend  enough  to  respect, 
while  what  she  did  not  comprehend  heightened  the  respect 
into  awe, —  then  the  more  vehement  and  indignant  passions 
of  her  mind  broke  forth!  her  flashing  eye,  her  scornful  ges- 
ture, her  mysterious  threat,  and  her  open  defiance  astonished 
always,  sometimes  amused,  but  more  often  terrified,  the  apa- 
thetic and  superstitious  Italians. 

Godolphin,  moved  by  interest  and  pity  for  the  daughter  of 
his  friend,  called  once  or  twice  after  the  funeral  at  the  house; 
and  commended,  with  promises  and  gifts,  the  desolate  girl  to 
the  tenderness  and  commiseration  of  her  relations.  There  is 
nothing  an  Italian  will  not  promise,  nothing  he  will  not  sell; 
and  Godolphin  thus  purchased,  in  reality,  a  forbearance  to 
Lucilla's  strange  temper  (as  it  was  considered)  which  other- 
wise, assuredly,  would  not  have  been  displayed. 

More  than  a  month  had  elapsed  since  the  astrologer's  de- 
cease; and,  the  season  of  the  malaria  verging  to  its  com- 
mencement, Godolphin  meditated  a  removal  to  Naples.  He 
strolled,  two  days  prior  to  his  departure,  to  the  house  on  the 
Appia  Via,  in  order  to  take  leave  of  Lucilla,  and  bequeath  to 
her  relations  his  parting  injunctions. 

It  was  a  strange  and  harsh  face  that  peered  forth  on  him 
through  the  iron  grating  of  the  door  before  he  obtained  ad- 
mittance ;  and  when  he  entered,  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices 
in  loud  altercation.  Among  the  rest,  the  naturally  dulcet  and 
silver  tones  of  Lucilla  were  strained  beyond  their  wonted 
key,  and  breathed  the  accents  of  passion  and  disdain. 

He  entered  the  room  whence  the  sounds  of  dispute  pro- 
ceeded, and  the  first  face  that  presented  itself  to  him  was 
that  of  Lucilla.  It  was  flushed  with  anger;  the  veins  in  the 
smooth  forehead  were  swelled;  the  short  lip  breathed  beauti- 
ful contempt.  She  stood  at  some  little  distance  from  the 
rest  of  the  inmates  of  the  room,  who  were  seated ;  and  her 
posture  was  erect  and  even  stately,  though  in  wrath :  her  arms 
were  folded  upon  her  bosom,  and  the  composed  excitement  of 
her  figure  contrasted  with  the  play  and  fire  and  energy  of  her 
features. 


152  GODOLPHIN. 

At  Godolphin's  appearance,  a  sudden  silence  fell  upon  the 
conclave;  the  uncle  and  the  aunt  (the  latter  of  whom  had 
seemed  the  noisiest)  subsided  into  apologetic  respect  to  the 
rich  (he  was  rich  to  them)  young  Englishman ;  and  -Lucilla 
sank  into  a  seat,  covered  her  face  with  her  small  and  beauti- 
ful hands,  and  —  humbled  from  her  anger  and  her  vehemence 
—  burst  into  tears. 

"And  what  is  this?"  said  Godolphin,  pityingly. 

The  Italians  hastened  to  inform  him.  Lucilla  had  chosen 
to  absent  herself  from  home  every  evening;  she  had  been 
seen,  the  last  night,  on  the  Corso,  crowded  as  that  street  was 
with  the  young,  the  profligate,  and  the  idle.  They  could  not 
but  reprove  "the  dear  girl"  for  this  indiscretion  (Italians, 
indifferent  as  to  the  conduct  of  the  married,  are  generally 
attentive  to  that  of  their  single,  women) ;  and  she  announced 
her  resolution  to  persevere  in  it. 

"Is  this  true,  my  pupil?"  said  Godolphin,  turning  to 
Lucilla;  the  poor  girl  sobbed  on,  but  returned  no  answer. 
"Leave  me  to  reprimand  and  admonish  her,"  said  he  to  the 
aunt  and  uncle;  and  they,  without  appearing  to  notice  the 
incongruity  of  reprimand  in  the  mouth  of  a  man  of  seven-and- 
twenty  to  a  girl  of  fifteen,  chattered  forth  a  Babel  of  concili- 
ation and  left  the  apartment. 

Godolphin,  young  as  he  might  be,  was  not  unfitted  for  his 
task.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  quiet  dignity  mingled  with 
the  kindness  of  his  manner;  and  his  affection  for  Lucilla  had 
hitherto  been  so  pure  that  he  felt  no  embarrassment  in  ad- 
dressing her  as  a  brother.  He  approached  the  corner  of  the 
room  in  which  she  sat;  he  drew  a  chair  near  to  her,  and  took 
her  reluctant  and  trembling  hand  with  a  gentleness  that  made 
her  weep  with  a  yet  wilder  vehemence. 

"My  dear  Lucilla,"  said  he,  "you  know  your  father  hon- 
oured me  with  his  regard:  let  me  presume  on  that  regard, 
and  on  my  long  acquaintance  with  yourself,  to  address  you  as 
your  friend,  as  your  brother."  Lucilla  drew  away  her  hand; 
but  again,  as  if  ashamed  of  the  impulse,  extended  it  towards 
him. 

"You  cannot  know  the  world  as  I  do,  dear  Lucilla,"  con- 


GODOLPHIN.  153 

tinued  Godolphin ;  "for  experience  iu  its  affairs  is  bought  at 
some  little  expense,  which  I  pray  that  it  may  never  cost  you. 
In  all  countries,  Lucilla,  an  unmarried  female  is  exposed  to 
dangers  which,  without  any  actual  fault  of  her  own,  may  em- 
bitter her  future  life.  One  of  the  greatest  of  these  dangers 
lies  in  deviating  from  custom.  With  the  woman  who  does 
this,  every  man  thinks  himself  entitled  to  give  his  thoughts, 
his  words,  nay,  even  his  actions,  a  license  which  you  cannot 
but  dread  to  incur.  Your  uncle  and  aunt,  therefore,  do  right 
to  advise  your  not  going  alone,  to  the  public  streets  of  Eome 
more  especially,  except  in  the  broad  daylight;  and  though 
their  advice  be  irksomely  intruded,  and  ungracefully  couched, 
it  is  good  in  its  principle,  and  —  yes,  dearest  Lucilla  —  even 
necessary  for  you  to  follow." 

"But,"  said  Lucilla,  through  her  tears,  "you  cannot  guess 
what  insults,  what  unkindness,  I  have  been  forced  to  submit 
to  from  them.  I,  who  never  knew,  till  now,  what  insult 
and  unkindness  were!  I,  who  — "  here  sobs  checked  her 
utterance. 

"But  how,  my  young  and  fair  friend,  how  can  you  mend 
their  manners  by  destroying  their  esteem  for  you?  Respect 
yourself,  Lucilla,  if  you  wish  others  to  respect  you.  But,  per- 
haps, "  —  and  such  a  thought  for  the  first  time  flashed  across 
Godolphin,  —  "  perhaps  you  did  not  seek  the  Corso  for  the 
crowd,  but  for  one;  perhaps  you  went  there  to  meet  —  dare  I 
guess  the  fact?  —  an  admirer,  a  lover." 

"Now  yoxi  insult  me!  "  cried  Lucilla,  angrily, 

"I  thank  you  for  your  anger;  I  accept  it  as  a  contradic- 
tion," said  Godolphin.  "But  listen  yet  a  while,  and  forgive 
frankness.  If  there  be  any  one,  among  the  throng  of  Italian 
youths,  whom  you  have  seen,  and  could  be  happy  with;  one 
who  loves  you  and  whom  you  do  not  hate,  remember  that  I 
am  your  father's  friend;  that  I  am  rich;  that  I  can  —  " 

"Cruel,  cruel!"  interrupted  Lucilla;  and  withdrawing  her- 
self from  Godolphin,  she  walked  to  and  fro  with  great  and 
struggling  agitation. 

"Is  it  not  so,  then?  "  said  Godolphin,  doubtingly. 

"No,  sir;  no!  " 


154  GODOLPHIN. 

"Lucilla  Volktman,"  said  Godolphin,  with  a  colder  gravity 
than  he  had  yet  called  forth,  "  I  claim  some  attention  from 
you,  some  confidence,  nay,  some  esteem, —  for  the  sake  of 
your  father,  for  the  sake  of  your  early  years,  when  I  assisted 
to  teach  you  my  native  tongue,  and  loved  you  as  a  brother. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  not  commit  this  indiscretion  any 
more, —  at  least  till  we  meet  again;  nay,  that  you  will  not 
stir  abroad,  save  with  one  of  your  relations." 

"Impossible!  impossible!"  cried  Lucilla,  vehemently;  "it 
were  to  take  away  the  only  solace  I  have :  it  were  to  make 
life  a  privation,  a  curse." 

"Not  so,  Lucilla;  it  is  to  make  life  respectable  and  safe. 
I,  on  the  other  hand,  will  engage  that  all  within  these  walls 
shall  behave  to  you  with  indulgence  and  kindness." 

"  I  care  not  for  their  kindness !  —  for  the  kindness  of  any 
one,  save  —  " 

"Whom?"  asked  Godolphin,  perceiving  she  would  not 
proceed:  but  as  she  was  still  silent,  he  did  not  press  the  ques- 
tion. "Come!"  said  he,  persuasively:  "come,  promise,  and 
be  friends  with  me ;  do  not  let  us  part  angrily :  I  am  about  to 
take  my  leave  of  you  for  many  months." 

"  Part !  you !  months !  —  0  God,  do  not  say  so !  " 

With  these  words,  she  was  by  his  side,  and  gazing  on  him 
with  her  large  and  pleading  eyes,  wherein  was  stamped  a 
wildness,  a  terror,  the  cause  of  which  he  did  not  as  yet 
decipher. 

"No,  no,"  said  she,  with  a  faint  smile;  "no!  you  mean  to 
frighten  me,  to  extort  my  promise.  You  are  not  going  to 
desert  me !  " 

"But,  Lucilla,  I  will  not  leave  you  to  unkindness;  the}" 
shall  not,  they  dare  not  wound  you  again." 

"Say  to  me  that  you  are  not  going  from  Rome;  speak, 
quick!  " 

"I  go  in  two  days." 

"Then  let  me  die!"  said  Lucilla,  in  a  tone  of  such  deep 
despair  that  it  chilled  and  appalled  Godolphin,  who  did  not, 
however,  attribute  her  grief  (the  grief  of  this  mere  child, —  a 
child  so  wayward  and  eccentric)  to  any  other  cause  than  that 


GODOLPIIIX.  155 

feeling  of  abandonment  which  the  young  so  bitterly  experi- 
ence at  being  left  utterly  alone  with  persons  unfamiliar  to 
their  habits  and  opposed  to  their  liking. 

He  sought  to  soothe  her,  but  she  repelled  him.  Her  feat- 
ures worked  convulsively ;  she  walked  twice  across  the  room ; 
then  stopped  opposite  to  him,  and  a  certain  strained  compos- 
ure on  her  brow  seemed  to  denote  that  she  had  arrived  at 
some  sudden  resolution. 

"Wouldst  thou  ask  me,"  she  said,  "what  cause  took  me 
into  the  streets  as  the  shadows  darkened,  and  enabled  me 
lightly  to  bear  threats  at  home  and  risk  abroad?  " 

"Ay,  Lucilla;  will  you  tell  me?  " 

"  Thou  wast  the  cause !  "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  trem- 
bling with  emotion,  and  the  next  moment  sank  on  her  knees 
before  him. 

With  a  confusion  that  ill  became  so  practised  and  favoured 
a  gallant,  Godolphin  sought  to  raise  her.  "Xo!  no!"  she 
said;  "you  will  despise  me  now;  let  me  lie  here,  and  die 
thinking  of  thee.  Yes!"  she  continued,  with  an  inward  but 
rapid  voice,  as  he  lifted  her  reluctant  frame  from  the  earth, 
and  hung  over  her  with  a  cold  and  uncaressing  attention, 
"yes!  you  I  loved  —  I  adored  —  from  my  very  childhood. 
When  you  were  by,  life  seemed  changed  to  me;  when  absent, 
I  longed  for  night,  that  I  might  dream  of  you.  The  spot 
you  had  touched  I  marked  out  in  silence,  that  I  might  kiss  it 
and  address  it  when  you  were  gone.  You  left  us;  four  years 
passed  away:  and  the  recollection  of  you  made  and  shaped 
my  very  nature.  I  loved  solitude,  for  in  solitude  I  saw  you ; 
in  imagination  I  spoke  to  you,  and  methought  you  answered 
and  did  not  chide.  You  returned  —  and  —  and  —  but  no  mat- 
ter: to  see  you,  at  the  hour  you  usually  leave  home,  to  see 
you,  I  wandered  forth  with  the  evening.  I  tracked  you,  my- 
self unseen;  I  followed  you  at  a  distance;  I  marked  you  dis- 
appear within  some  of  the  proud  palaces  that  never  know 
what  love  is.  I  returned  home  weeping,  but  happy.  And  do 
you  think  —  do  you  dare  to  think  —  that  I  should  have  told 
you  this,  had  you  not  driven  me  mad;  had  you  not  left  me 
reckless  of  what  henceforth  was  thought  of  me,  became  of 


156  GODOLPIilX. 

me?  What  will  life  be  to  me  when  you  are  gone?  And 
now  I  have  said  all!  Go!  You  do  not  love  me:  I  know 
it;  but  do  not  say  so.  Go,  leave  me;  why  do  you  not 
leave  me?  " 

Does  there  live  one  man  who  can  hear  a  woman,  young  and 
beautiful,  confess  attachment  to  him,  and  not  catch  the  con- 
tagion? Affected,  flattered,  and  almost  melted  into  love 
himself,  Godolphin  felt  all  the  danger  of  the  moment;  but 
this  young,  inexperienced  girl  —  the  daughter  of  his  friend  — 
no !  her  he  could  not,  loving,  willing  as  she  was,  betray. 

Yet  it  was  some  moments  before  he  could  command  himself 
sufficiently  to  answer  her.  "Listen  to  me  calmly,"  at  length 
he  said;  "we  are  at  least  to  each  other  dear  friends;  nay,  lis- 
ten, I  beseech  you.  I,  Lucilla,  am  a  man  whose  heart  is  fore- 
stalled,—  exhausted  before  its  time.  I  have  loved  deeply 
and  passionately;  that  love  is  over,  but  it  has  unfitted  me  for 
any  species  of  love  resembling  itself,  — any  which  I  could 
offer  to  you.  Dearest  Lucilla,  I  will  not  disguise  the  truth 
from  you.  Were  I  to  love  you,  it  would  be  —  not  in  the  eyes 
of  your  countrymen  (with  whom  such  connections  are  com- 
mon), but  in  the  eyes  of  mine  —  it  would  be  dishonour.  Shall 
I  confer  even  this  partial  dishonour  on  you?  Xo!  Lucilla, 
this  feeling  of  yours  towards  me  is  (pardon  me)  but  a  young 
and  childish  fantasy;  you  will  smile  at  it  some  years  hence. 
I  am  not  worthy  of  so  pure  and  fresh  a  heart;  but  at  least" 
—  here  he  spoke  in  a  lower  voice,  and  as  to  himself  —  "  at 
least  I  am  not  so  unworthy  as  to  wrong  it." 

"Go!"  said  Lucilla;  "go,  I  implore  you."  She  spoke,  and 
stood  hueless  and  motionless,  as  if  the  life  (life's  life  was  in- 
deed gone!)  had  departed  from  her.  Her  features  were  set 
and  rigid;  the  tears  that  stole  in  large  drops  down  her  cheeks 
were  unfelt;  a  slight  quivering  of  her  lips  only  bespoke  what 
passed  within  her. 

"  Ah ! "  cried  Godolphin,  stung  from  his  usual  calm,  stung 
from  the  quiet  kindness  he  had  sought,  from  principle,  to 
assume,  "can  I  withstand  this  trial?  — I,  whose  dream  of  life 
has  been  the  love  that  I  might  now  find!  I,  who  have  never 
before  known  an  obstacle  to  a  wish  which  I  have  not  con- 


GODOLPHIN^.  157 

tended  against,  if  not  conquered;  and,  weakened  as  I  am  with 
the  habitual  indulgence  to  temptation,  which  has  never  been 
so  strong  as  now  —  but  no !  I  will  —  I  will  deserve  this  at- 
tachment by  self-restraint,  self-sacrifice." 

He  moved  away ;  and  then  returning,  dropped  on  his  knee 
before  Lucilla. 

"Spare  me!"  said  he,  in  an  agitated  voice,  which  brought 
back  all  the  blood  to  that  young  and  transparent  cheek,  which 
was  now  half  averted  from  him  —  "  spare  me !  spare  yourself ! 
Look  around,  when  I  am  gone,  for  some  one  to  replace  my 
image:  thousands  younger,  fairer,  warmer  of  heart,  will  as- 
pire to  your  love ;  that  love  for  them  will  be  exposed  to  no 
peril,  no  shame :  forget  me ;  select  another ;  be  happy  and  re- 
spected. Permit  me  alone  to  fill  the  place  of  your  friend, 
your  brother.  I  will  provide  for  your  comforts,  your  liberty ; 
you  shall  be  restrained,  offended  no  more.  God  bless  you, 
dear,  dear  Lucilla;  and  believe"  (he  said,  almost  in  a  whis- 
per), "that,  in  thus  flying  you,  I  have  acted  generously,  and 
with  an  effort  worthy  of  your  loveliness  and  your  love." 

He  said,  and  hurried  from  the  apartment.  Lucilla  turned 
slowly  round  as  the  door  closed  and  then  fell  motionless  on 
the  ground. 

Meanwhile  Godolphin,  mastering  his  emotion,  sought  the 
host  and  hostess ;  and  begging  them  to  visit  his  lodging  that 
evening  to  receive  certain  directions  and  rewards,  hastily 
left  the  house. 

But  instead  of  returning  home,  the  desire  for  a  brief  soli- 
tude and  self -commune,  which  usually  follows  strong  excite- 
ment (and  which,  in  all  less  ordinary  events,  suggested  his' 
sole  counsellers  or  monitors  to  the  musing  Godolphin),  led  his 
steps  in  an  opposite  direction.  Scarcely  conscious  whither 
he  was  wandering,  he  did  not  pause  till  he  found  himself  in 
that  green  and  still  valley  in  which  the  pilgrim  beholds  the 
grotto  of  Egeria. 

It  was  noon,  and  the  day  warm,  but  not  overpowering.  The 
leaf  slept  on  the  old  trees  that  are  scattered  about  that  little 
valley;  and  amidst  the  soft  and  rich  turf  the  wanderer's  step 
disturbed  the  lizard,  basking  its  brilliant  hues  in  the  noon- 


158  GODOLPHIX. 

tide,  and  glancing  rapidly  through  the  herbage  as  it  retreated. 
And  from  the  trees  and  through  the  air,  the  occasional  song 
of  the  birds  (for  in  Italy  their  voices  are  rare)  floated  with  a 
peculiar  clearness,  and  even  noisiness  of  music,  along  the 
deserted  haunts  of  the  Nymph. 

The  scene,  rife  with  its  beautiful  associations,  recalled 
Godolphin  from  his  re  very.  "And  here,"  thought  he,  "Fable 
has  thrown  its  most  lovely  enduring  enchantment ;  here,  every 
one  who  has  tasted  the  loves  of  earth,  and  sickened  for  the 
love  that  is  ideal,  finds  a  spell  more  attractive  to  his  steps, 
more  fraught  Avith  contemplation  to  his  spirit,  than  aught 
raised  by  the  palace  of  the  Csesars  or  the  tomb  of  the 
Scipios." 

Thus  meditating,  and  softened  by  the  late  scene  with 
Lucilla  (to  which  his  thoughts  again  recurred),  he  sauntered 
onward  to  the  steep  side  of  the  bank,  in  which  faith  and 
tradition  have  hollowed  out  the  grotto  of  the  goddess.  He 
entered  the  silent  cavern,  and  bathed  his  temples  in  the  deli- 
cious waters  of  the  fountain. 

It  was  perhaps  well  that  it  was  not  at  that  moment  Lucilla 
made  to  him  her  strange  and  unlooked-for  confession;  again 
and  again  he  said  to  himself  (as  if  seeking  for  a  justification 
of  his  self-sacrifice),  "Her  father  was  not  Italian,  and  pos- 
sessed feeling  and  honour:  let  me  not  forget  that  he  loved 
me!"  In  truth,  the  avowal  of  this  wild  girl  —  an  avowal 
made  indeed  with  the  ardour,  but  also  breathing  of  the  in- 
nocence, the  inexperience  of  her  character  —  had  opened  to 
his  fancy  new  and  not  undelicious  prospects.  He  had  never 
loved  her,  save  with  a  lukewarm  kindness,  before  that  last 
hour;  but  now,  in  recalling  her  beauty,  her  tears,  her  pas- 
sionate abandonment,  can  we  wonder  that  he  felt  a  strange 
beating  at  his  heart,  and  that  he  indulged  that  dissolved  and 
luxurious  vein  of  tender  meditation  which  is  the  prelude  to 
all  love?  We  must  recall,  too,  the  recollection  of  his  own 
temper,  so  constantly  yearning  for  the  unhackneyed,  the  un- 
tasted;  and  his  deep  and  soft  order  of  imagination,  by  which 
he  involuntarily  conjured  up  the  delight  of  living  with  one, 
watching  one,  so  different  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 


GODOLPHIN.  159 

whose  thoughts  and  passions  (wild  as  they  might  be)  were  all 
devoted  to  him! 

And  in  what  spot  were  these  imaginings  fed  and  coloured? 
In  a  spot  which  in  the  nature  of  its  divine  fascination  could 
be  found  only  beneath  one  sky,  tliat  sky  the  most  balmy  and 
loving  upon  earth!  Who  could  think  of  love  within  the 
haunt  and  temple  of  — 

"  That  Nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair," 

and  not  feel  that  love  enhanced,  deepened,  modulated,  into  at 
once  a  dream  and  a  desire? 

It  was  long  that  Godolphin  indulged  himself  in  recalling 
the  image  of  Lucilla;  but  nerved  at  length  and  gradually,  by 
harder,  and  we  may  hope  better,  sentiments  than  those  of  a 
love  which  he  could  scarcely  indvilge  without  criminality  on 
the  one  hand,  or  what  must  have  appeared  to  the  man  of  the 
world  derogatory  folly  on  the  other,  he  turned  his  thoughts 
into  a  less  voluptuous  channel,  and  prepared,  though  with 
a  reluctant  step,  to  depart  homew^ards.  But  what  was 
his  amaze,  his  confusion,  when,  on  reaching  the  mouth 
of  the  cave,  he  saw  within  a  few  steps  of  him  Lucilla 
herself! 

She  was  walking  alone  and  slowly,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the 
ground,  and  did  not  perceive  him.  According  to  a  com- 
mon custom  with  the  middle  classes  of  Eome,  her  rich  hair, 
save  by  a  single  band,  was  uncovered ;  and  as  her  slight  and 
exquisite  form  moved  along  the  velvet  sod,  so  beautiful  a 
shape,  and  a  face  so  rare  in  its  character  and  delicate  in  its 
expression,  were  in  harmony  with  the  sweet  superstition  of 
the  spot,  and  seemed  almost  to  restore  to  the  deserted  cave 
and  the  mourning  stream  their  living  Egeria. 

Godolphin  stood  transfixed  to  the  earth;  and  Lucilla,  who 
was  walking  in  the  direction  of  the  grotto,  did  not  perceive, 
till  she  was  almost  immediately  before  him.  She  gave  a  faint 
scream  as  she  lifted  her  eyes;  and  the  first  and  most  natural 
sentiment  of  the  woman  breaking  forth  involuntarily,  she 
attempted  to  falter  out  her  disavowal  of  all  expectation  of 
meeting  him  there. 


160  GODOLPHIN. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  did  not  know  —  that  is  —  I  —  I  —  "  slie 
could  achieve  no  more. 

"Is  this  a  favourite  spot  with  you?"  said  he,  with  the 
vague  embarrassment  of  one  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"Yes,"  said  Lucilla,  faintly. 

And  so,  in  truth,  it  was :  for  its  vicinity  to  her  home,  the 
beauty  of  the  little  valley,  and  the  interest  attached  to  it  — 
an  interest  not  the  less  to  her  in  that  she  was  but  imperfectly 
acquainted  with  the  true  legend  of  the  Nymph  and  her  royal 
lover  —  had  made  it,  even  from  her  childhood,  a  chosen  and 
beloved  retreat,  especially  in  that  dangerous  summer  time, 
which  drives  the  visitor  from  the  spot,  and  leaves  the  scene, 
in  great  measure,  to  the  solitude  which  befits  it.  Associated 
as  the  place  was  with  the  recollections  of  her  earlier  griefs,  it 
was  thither  that  her  first  instinct  made  her  fly  from  the  rude 
contact  and  displeasing  companionship  of  her  relations,  to 
give  vent  to  the  various  and  conflicting  passions  which  the 
late   scene  with  Godolphin  had   called  forth. 

They  now  stood  for  a  few  moments  silent  and  embarrassed, 
till  Godolphin,  resolved  to  end  a  scene  which  he  began  to  feel 
was  dangerous,  said  in  a  hurried  tone, — 

"  Farewell,  my  sweet  pupil !  —  farewell !  May  God  bless 
you ! "  He  extended  his  hand ;  Lucilla  seized  it,  as  if  by 
impulse,  and  conveying  it  suddenly  to  her  lips,  bathed  it 
with  tears. 

"I  feel,"  said  this  wild  and  unregulated  girl,  "I  feel,  from 
your  manner,  that  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to  you ;  yet  I  scarcely 
know  why :  you  confess  you  cannot  love  me,  that  my  affection 
distresses  you  —  you  fly  —  you  desert  me.  Ah,  if  you  felt  one 
particle  even  of  friendship  for  me,  could  you  do  so?  " 

"Lucilla,  what  can  I  say?  —  I  cannot  marry  you." 

"Do  I  wish  it?  I  ask  thee  but  to  let  me  go  with  thee 
wherever  thou  goest." 

"Poor  child!"  said  Godolphin,  gazing  on  her;  "art  thou 
not  aware  that  thou  askest  thine  own  dishonour?" 

Lucilla  seemed  surprised.  "Is  it  dishonour  to  love?  They 
do  not  think  so  in  Italy.  It  is  wrong  for  a  maiden  to  confess 
it ;  but  that  thou  hast  forgiven  me.     And  if  to  follow  thee,  to 


GODOLPHIN.  161 

sit  with  thee,  to  be  near  thee,  bring  aught  of  evil  to  myself, 
not  thee,  let  me  incur  the  evil;  it  can  be  nothing  compared 
to  the  agony  of  thy  absence ! " 

She  looked  up  timidly  as  she  spoke,  and  saw,  with  a  sort 
of  terror,  that  his  face  worked  with  emotions  which  seemed 
to  choke  his  answer.  "If,"  she  cried  passionately,  "if  I  have 
said  what  pains  thee,  if  I  have  asked  what  would  give  dis- 
honour, as  thou  callest  it,  or  harm,  to  thyself,  forgive  me  — 
I  knew  it  not  —  and  leave  me.  But  if  it  were  not  of  thyself 
that  thou  didst  speak,  believe  that  thou  hast  done  me  but  a 
cruel  mercy.  Let  me  go  with  thee,  I  implore!  I  have  no 
friend  here:  no  one  loves  me.  I  hate  the  faces  I  gaze  upon; 
I  loathe  the  voices  I  hear.  And,  were  it  for  nothing  else, 
thou  remindest  me  of  him  who  is  gone.  Thou  art  familiar  to 
me ;  every  look  of  thee  breathes  of  my  home,  of  my  household 
recollections.  Take  me  with  thee,  beloved  stranger!  —  or 
leave  me  to  die  —  I  will  not  survive  thy  loss!" 

"  You  speak  of  your  father :  know  you  that,  were  I  to  grant 
what  you,  in  your  childish  innocence,  so  unthinkingly  re- 
quest, he  might  curse  me  from  his  grave?  " 

"0  God,  not  so!  —  mine  is  the  prayer  —  be  mine  the  guilt, 
if  guilt  there  be.  But  is  it  not  unkinder  in  thee  to  desert  his 
daughter  than  to  protect  her?  " 

There  was  a  great,  a  terrible  struggle  in  Godolphin's  breast. 
"What,"  said  he,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said, —  "what 
will  the  world  think  of  you  if  you  fly  with  a  stranger?  " 

"  There  is  no  world  to  me  but  thee !  " 

"What  will  your  uncle,  your  relations  say?  " 

"I  care  not;  for  I  shall  not  hear  them." 

"iSTo,  no;  this  must  not  be!  "  said  Godolphin,  proudly,  and 
once  more  conquering  himself.  "Lucilla,  I  would  give  up 
every  other  dream  or  hope  in  life  to  feel  that  I  might  requite 
this  devotion  by  passing  my  life  with  thee;  to  feel  that  I 
might  grant  what  thou  askest  without  wronging  thy  inno- 
cence; but  —  but — " 

"You  love  me  then!  You  love  me!"  cried  Lucilla,  joy- 
ously, and  alive  to  no  other  interpretation  of  his  words. 

Godolphin  was  transported  beyond  himself;  and  clasping. 

11 


162  GODOLPHIN. 

Lucilla  in  his  arms  he  covered  her  cheeks,  her  lips,  with  im- 
passioned and  burning  kisses;  then  suddenly,  as  if  stung  by 
some  irresistible  impulse,  he  tore  himself  away,  and  fled  from 
the  spot. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE    WEAKNESS    OF     ALL    VIRTUE    SPRINGING    ONLY    FROM    THK 

FEELINGS. 

It  was  the  evening  before  Godolphin  left  Rome.  As  he 
was  entering  his  palazzo  he  descried,  in  the  darkness,  and 
at  a  little  distance,  a  figure  wrapped  in  a  mantle,  that  re- 
minded him  of  Lucilla;  ere  he  could  certify  himself,  it  was 
gone. 

On  entering  his  rooms,  he  looked  eagerly  over  the  papers 
and  notes  on  his  table ;  he  seemed  disappointed  with  the  re- 
sult, and  sat  himself  down  in  moody  and  discontented  thought. 
He  had  written  to  Lucilla  the  day  before,  a  long,  a  kind,  nay, 
a  noble  outpouring  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  As  far  as 
he  was  able  to  one  so  simple  in  her  experience,  yet  so  wild  in 
her  fancy,  he  explained  to  her  the  nature  of  his  struggles  and 
his  self-sacrifice.  He  did  not  disguise  from  her  that,  till  the 
moment  of  her  confession,  he  had  never  examined  the  state  of 
his  heart  towards  her;  nor  that,  with  that  confession,  a  new 
and  ardent  train  of  sentiment  had  been  kindled  within  him. 
He  knew  enough  of  women  to  be  aware  that  the  last  avowal 
would  be  the  sweetest  consolation  both  to  her  vanity  and  her 
heart.  He  assured  her  of  the  promises  he  had  received  from 
her  relations  to  grant  her  the  liberty  and  the  indulgence 
that  her  early  and  unrestrained  habits  required;  and,  in 
the  most  delicate  and  respectful  terms,  he  inclosed  an  order 
fox  a  sum  of  money  sufficient  at  any  time  to  command 
the  regard  of  those  with  whom  she  lived,  or  to  enable  her  to 
choose,  should  she  so  desire  (though  he  advised  her  not  to 


GODOLPHIN.  163 

adopt  such  a  measure,   save  for  the  most  urgent  reasons), 
another  residence. 

"  Send  me  in  return,"  he  said,  as  he  concluded,  "  a  lock  of  your  hair. 
I  want  nothing  to  remind  me  of  your  beauty  ;  but  I  want  some  token  of 
the  heart  of  whose  affection  I  am  so  mournfully  proud.  I  will  wear  it 
as  a  charm  against  the  contamination  of  that  world  of  which  you  are  so 
happily  ignorant ;  as  a  memento  of  one  nature  beyond  the  thought  of 
self ;  as  a  surety  that,  in  finding  within  this  base  and  selfish  quarter  of 
earth  one  soul  so  warm,  so  pure  as  yours,  I  did  not  deceive  myself,  and 
dream.  If  we  ever  meet  again,  may  you  have  then  found  some  one 
happier  than  I  am,  and  in  his  tenderness  have  forgotten  all  of  me  save 
one  kind  remembrance.  Beautiful  and  dear  Lucilla,  adieu  !  If  I  have 
not  given  way  to  the  luxury  of  being  beloved  by  you,  it  is  because  your 
generous  self-abandonment  has  awakened  within  a  heart  too  selfish  to 
others  a  real  love  for  yourself." 

To  this  letter  Godolphin  had,  hour  after  hour,  expected  a 
reply.  He  received  none, —  not  even  the  lock  of  hair  for  which 
he  had  pressed.  He  was  disappointed,  angry,  with  Lucilla, 
dissatisfied  with  himself.  " How  bitterly, "  thought  he,  "the 
wise  Saville  would  smile  at  my  folly!  I  have  renounced  the 
bliss  of  possessing  this  singular  and  beautiful  being;  for 
what?  —  a  scruple  which  she  cannot  even  comprehend,  and  at 
which,  in  her  friendless  and  forlorn  state,  the  most  starched 
of  her  dissolute  countrywomen  would  smile  as  a  ridiculous 
punctilio.  And,  in  truth,  had  I  fled  hence  with  her,  should  I 
not  have  made  her  throughout  life  happier  —  far  happier  — 
than  she  will  be  now?  Kor  would  she,  in  that  happiness, 
have  felt,  like  an  English  girl,  any  pang  of  shame.  Here, 
the  tie  would  have  never  been  regarded  as  a  degradation;  nor 
does  she,  recurring  to  the  simple  laws  of  nature,  imagine  that 
any  one  could  so  regard  it.  Besides,  inexperienced  as  she  is 
—  the  creature  of  impulse  —  will  she  not  fall  a  victim  to 
some  more  artful  and  less  generous  lover;  to  some  one  who 
in  her  innocence  will  see  only  forwardness;  and  who,  far 
from  protecting  her  as  I  should  have  done,  will  regard  her 
but  as  the  plaything  of  an  hour,  and  cast  her  forth  the  mo- 
ment his  passion  is  sated!  —  sated!  0  bitter  thought,  that 
the  head  of   another  should  rest  upon  that  bosom  now  so 


164  GODOLPHIN. 

wholly  mine !  After  all,  I  have,  in  vainly  adopting  a  seem- 
ing and  sounding  virtue,  merely  renounced  my  own  happiness 
to  leave  her  to  the  chances  of  being  permanently  rendered 
unhappy,  and  abandoned  to  want,  shame,  destitution,  by 
another !  " 

These  disagreeable  and  regretful  thoughts  were,  in  turn, 
but  weakly  combated  by  the  occasional  self-congrafculation 
that  belongs  to  a  just  or  generous  act,  and  were  varied  by  a 
thousand  conjectures  —  now  of  anxiety,  now  of  anger  —  as  to 
the  silence  of  Lucilla.  Sometimes  he  thought  —  but  the 
thought  only  glanced  partially  across  him,  and  was  not  dis- 
tinctly acknowledged  —  that  she  might  seek  an  interview 
with  him  ere  he  departed;  and  in  this  hope  he  did  not  retire 
to  rest  till  the  dawn  broke  over  the  ruins  of  the  mighty  and 
breathless  city.  He  then  flung  himself  on  a  sofa  without 
undressing,  but  could  not  sleep,  save  in  short  and  broken 
intervals. 

The  next  day,  he  put  off  his  departure  till  noon,  still  in  the 
hope  of  hearing  from  Lucilla,  but  in  vain.  He  could  not  flat- 
ter himself  with  the  hope  that  Lucilla  did  not  know  the  exact 
time  for  his  journey, —  he  had  expressly  stated  it.  Some- 
times he  conceived  the  notion  of  seeking  her  again;  but  he 
knew  too  well  the  weakness  of  his  generous  resolution;  and, 
though  infirm  of  thought,  was  yet  virtuous  enough  in  act  not 
to  hazard  it  to  certain  defeat.  At  length  in  a  momentary 
desperation,  and  muttering  reproaches  on  Lucilla  for  her 
fickleness  and  inability  to  appreciate  the  magnanimity  of  his 
conduct,  he  threw  himself  into  his  carriage,  and  bade  adieu 
to  Eome. 

As  every  grove  that  the  traveller  passes  on  that  road  was 
guarded  once  by  a  nymph,  so  now  it  is  hallowed  by  a  memory. 
In  vain  the  air,  heavy  with  death,  creeps  over  the  wood,  the 
rivulet,  and  the  shattered  tower :  the  mind  will  not  recur  to 
the  risk  of  its  ignoble  tenement;  it  flies  back;  it  is  with  the 
Past!  A  subtle  and  speechless  rapture  fills  and  exalts  the 
spirit.  There  —  far  to  the  West  —  spreads  that  purple  sea, 
haunted  by  a  million  reminiscences  of  glory;  there  the  moun- 
tains, with  their  sharp  and  snowy  crests,  rise  into  the  bosom 


GODOLPHIN.  165 

of  the  heavens;  on  that  plain,  the  pilgrim  yet  hails  the  tra- 
ditional tomb  of  the  Curiatii  and  those  immortal  Twins  who 
left  to  their  brother  the  glory  of  conquest,  and  the  shame  by 
which  it  was  succeeded;  around  the  Lake  of  Nemi  yet  bloom 
the  sacred  groves  by  which  Diana  raised  Hippolytus  again 
into  life.  Poetry,  Fable,  History,  watch  over  the  land:  it  is 
a  sepulchre;  Death  is  within  and  around  it;  Decay  writes 
defeature  upon  every  stone;  but  the  Past  sits  by  the  tomb  as 
a  mourning  angel;  a  soul  breathes  through  the  desolation;  a 
voice  calls  amidst  the  silence.  Every  age  that  hath  passed 
away  hath  left  a  ghost  behind  it ;  and  the  beautiful  land  seems 
like  that  imagined  clime  beneath  the  earth  in  which  man, 
glorious  though  it  be,  may  not  breathe  and  live,  but  which  is 
populous  with  holy  phantoms  and  illustrious  shades. 

On,  on  sped  Godolphin.  Night  broke  over  him  as  he  trav- 
ersed the  Pontine  Marshes.  There,  the  malaria  broods  over 
its  rankest  venom;  solitude  hath  lost  the  soul  that  belonged 
to  it;  all  life,  save  the  deadly  fertility  of  corruption,  seems 
to  have  rotted  away ;  the  spirit  falls  stricken  into  gloom ;  a 
nightmare  weighs  upon  the  breast  of  Nature;  and  over  the 
wrecks  of  Time,  Silence  sits  motionless  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

He  arrived  at  Terracina,  and  retired  to  rest.  His  sleep 
was  filled  with  fearful  dreams ;  he  woke,  late  at  noon,  languid 
and  dejected.  As  his  servant,  who  had  lived  with  him  some 
years,  attended  him  in  rising,  Godolphin  observed  on  his 
countenance  that  expression  common  to  persons  of  his  class 
when  they  have  something  which  they  wish  to  communicate, 
and  are  watching  their  opportunity. 

"  Well,  Maiden !  "  said  he,  "  you  look  important  this  morn- 
ing: what  has  happened?" 

"E — hem!  Did  not  you  observe,  sir,  a  carriage  behind  us 
as  we  crossed  the  marshes?  Sometimes  you  might  just  see  it 
at  a  distance,  in  the  moonlight." 

"How  the  deuce  should  I,  being  within  the  carriage,  see 
behind  me?  No;  I  know  nothing  of  the  carriage:  what 
of  it?" 

"A  person  arrived  in  it,  sir,  a  little  after  you,  would  not 
retire  to  bed,  and  waits  you  in  your  sitting-room." 


166  GODOLPHIN. 

^'■K person!  what  person?" 

"A  lady,  sir, —  a  young  lady;  "  said  the  servant,  suppress- 
ing a  smile. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  ejaculated  Godolphin ;  "  leave  me."  The 
valet  obeyed. 

Godolphin,  not  for  a  moment  doubting  that  it  was  Lucilla 
who  had  thus  followed  him,  was  struck  to  the  heart  by  this 
proof  of  her  resolute  and  reckless  attachment.  In  any  other 
woman,  so  bold  a  measure  would,  it  is  true,  have  revolted  his 
fastidious  and  somewhat  English  taste.  But  in  Lucilla,  all 
that  might  have  seemed  immodest  arose,  in  reality,  from  that 
pure  and  spotless  ignorance  which,  of  all  species  of  modesty, 
is  the  most  enchanting,  the  most  dangerous  to  its  possessor. 
The  daughter  of  loneliness  and  seclusion,  estranged  wholly 
from  all  familiar  or  female  intercourse,  rather  bewildered 
than  in  any  way  enlightened  by  the  few  books  of  poetry,  or 
the  lighter  letters,  she  had  by  accident  read, —  the  sense  of 
impropriety  was  in  her  so  vague  a  sentiment  that  every  im- 
pulse of  her  wild  and  impassioned  character  effaced  and  swept 
it  away.  Ignorant  of  what  is  due  to  the  reserve  of  the  sex, 
and  even  of  the  opinions  of  the  world  —  lax  as  the  Italian 
world  is  on  matters  of  love  —  she  only  saw  occasion  to  glory 
in  her  tenderness,  her  devotion,  to  one  so  elevated  in  her 
fancy  as  the  English  stranger.  Nor  did  there  —  however 
unconsciously  to  herself  —  mingle  a  single  more  derogatory 
or  less  pure  emotion  with  her  fanatical  worship. 

For  my  own  part,  I  think  that  few  men  understand  the 
real  nature  of  a  girl's  love.  Arising  so  vividly  as  it  does 
from  the  imagination,  nothing  that  the  mind  of  the  libertine 
would  impute  to  it  ever  (or  at  least  in  most  rare  instances) 
sullies  its  weakness  or  debases  its  folly.  I  do  not  say  the 
love  is  better  for  being  thus  solely  the  creature  of  imagina- 
tion :  I  say  only  so  it  is  in  ninety -nine  out  of  a  hundred  in- 
stances of  girlish  infatuation.  In  later  life,  it  is  different; 
in  the  experienced  woman,  forwardness  is  always  depravity. 

With  trembling  steps  and  palpitating  heart,  Godolphin 
sought  the  apartment  in  which  he  expected  to  find  Lucilla. 
There,  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  her  face  covered  with  her 


GODOLPUIN.  167 

mantle,  he  beheld  her.  He  hastened  to  that  spot;  he  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  before  her;  with  a  timid  hand  he  re- 
moved the  covering  from  her  face;  and  through  tears  and 
paleness  and  agitation,  his  heart  was  touched  to  the  quick  by 
its  soft  and  loving  expression. 

"Wilt  thou  forgive  me?"  she  faltered;  "it  was  thine  own 
letter  that  brought  me  hither.    Now  leave  me,  if  thou  canst!  " 

"Never,  never!"  cried  Godolphin,  clasping  her  to  his 
heart.  "It  is  fated,  and  I  resist  no  more.  Love,  tend, 
cherish  thee,  I  Avill  to  my  last  hour.  I  will  be  all  to  thee 
that  human  ties  can  afford, —  father,  brother,  lover  —  all  but 
— "  He  paused;  "all  but  husband,"  whispered  his  con- 
science, but  he  silenced  its  voice. 

"I  may  go  with  thee!  "  said  Lucilla,  in  wild  ecstasy;  that 
was  her  only  thought. 

As,  when  the  notion  of  escape  occurs  to  the  insane,  their 
insanity  appears  to  cease ;  courage,  prudence,  caution,  inven- 
tion (faculties  which  they  knew  not  in  sounder  health),  flash 
upon  and  support  them  as  by  an  inspiration,  so  a  new  genius 
had  seemed  breathed  into  Lucilla  by  the  idea  of  rejoining 
(xodolphin.  She  imagined  —  not  without  justice  —  that,  could 
she  throw  in  the  way  of  her  return  home  an  obstacle  of  that 
worldly  nature  which  he  seemed  to  dread  she  should  encoun- 
ter, his  chief  reason  for  resisting  her  attachment  would  be 
removed.  Encouraged  by  this  thought,  and  more  than  ever 
transported  by  her  love  since  he  had  expressed  a  congenial 
sentiment;  excited  into  emulation  by  the  generous  tone  of  his 
letter,  and  softened  into  yet  deeper  weakness  by  its  tender- 
ness, she  had  resolved  upon  the  bold  step  she  adopted.  A 
vetturino  lived  near  the  gate  of  St.  Sebastian.  She  had 
sought  him ;  and  at  sight  of  the  money  which  Godolphin  had 
sent  her,  the  vetturino  willingly  agreed  to  transport  her  to 
whatever  point  on  the  road  to  Naples  she  might  desire, —  nay, 
even  to  keep  pace  with  the  more  rapid  method  of  travelling 
which  Godolphin  pursued.  Early  on  the  morning  of  his  de- 
parture, she  had  sought  her  station  within  sight  of  Godol- 
phin's  palazzo;  and  ten  minutes  after  his  departure  the 
vetturino  bore  her,  delighted  but  trembling,  on  the  same  road. 


168  GODOLPHIN. 

The  Italians  are  ordinarily  good-natured,  especially  when 
they  are  paid  for  it;  and  courteous  to  females,  especially  if 
they  have  any  suspicion  of  the  influence  of  the  helle  passion. 
The  vetturino's  foresight  had  supplied  the  deficiencies  of  her 
inexperience:  he  had  reminded  her  of  the  necessity  of  pro- 
curing her  passport;  and  he  undertook  that  all  other  difficul- 
ties should  solely  devolve  on  him.  And  thus  Lucilla  was  now 
under  the  same  roof  with  one  for  whom,  indeed,  she  was  un- 
aware of  the  sacrifice  she  made,  but  whom,  despite  of  all  that 
clouded  and  separated  their  after-lot,  she  loved  to  the  last, 
with  a  love  as  reckless  and  strong  as  then, —  a  love  passing 
the  love  of  woman,  and  defying  the  common  ordinances  of 
time. 

On  the  blue  waters  that  break  with  a  deep  and  far  voice 
along  the  rocks  of  that  delicious  shore,  above  which  the 
mountain  that  rises  behind  Terracina  scatters  to  the  air  the 
odours  of  the  citron  and  the  orange,  on  that  sounding  and 
immemorial  sea  the  stars,  like  the  hopes  of  a  brighter  world 
upon  the  darkness  and  unrest  of  life,  shone  down  with  a  sol- 
emn but  tender  light.  On  that  shore  stood  Lucilla  and  he  — 
the  wandering  stranger  —  in  whom  she  had  hoarded  the  peace 
and  the  hopes  of  earth.  Hers  was  the  first  and  purple  flush 
of  the  love  which  has  attained  its  object;  that  sweet  and 
quiet  fulness  of  content,  that  heavenly,  all-subduing  and  sub- 
dued delight,  with  which  the  heart  slumbers  in  the  excess  of 
its  own  rapture.  Care,  the  forethought  of  change,  even  the 
shadowy  and  vague  mournfulness  of  passion,  are  felt  not  in 
those  voluptuous  but  tranquil  moments.  Like  the  waters 
that  rolled,  deep  and  eloquent,  before  her,  every  feeling 
within  was  but  the  mirror  of  an  all-gentle  and  cloudless 
heaven.  Her  head  half -declined  upon  the  breast  of  her 
young  lover,  she  caught  the  beating  of  his  heart,  and  in  it 
heard  all  the  sounds  of  what  was  now  become  to  her  the 
world. 

And  still  and  solitary  deepened  around  them  the  mystic 
and  lovely  night.  How  divine  was  that  sense  and  conscious- 
ness of  solitude!  how,  as  it  thrilled  within  them,  they  clung 


GODOLPHIN.  169 

closer  to  each  other!  Theirs  as  yet  was  that  blissful  and 
unsated  time  when  the  touch  of  their  hands,  clasped  together, 
was  in  itself  a  happiness  of  emotion  too  deep  for  words.  And 
ever,  as  his  eyes  sought  hers,  the  tears  which  the  sensitive- 
ness of  her  frame,  in  the  very  luxury  of  her  overflowing 
heart,  called  forth  glittered  in  the  tranquil  stars  a  moment 
and  were  kissed  away.  "Do  not  look  up  to  heaven,  my  love," 
whispered  Godolphin,  "  lest  thou  shouldst  think  of  any  world 
but  this ! " 

Poor  Lucilla!  will  any  one  who  idly  glances  over  this  page 
sympathize  one  moment  with  the  springs  of  thy  brief  joys  and 
thy  bitter  sorrow?  The  page  on  which,  in  stamping  a  record 
of  thee,  I  would  fain  retain  thy  memory  from  oblivion,  that 
page  is  an  emblem  of  thyself, —  a  short  existence,  confounded 
with  the  herd  to  which  it  has  no  resemblance,  and  then, 
amidst  the  rush  and  tumult  of  the  world,  forgotten  and  cast 
away  forever! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

RETURN"  TO  LADY  EKPIXGHAM.  —  LADY  ERPINGHAM  FALLS 
ILL. LORD  ERPIXGHAM  EESOL\'ES  TO  GO  ABROAD. PLU- 
TARCH   UPON    MUSICAL    INSTRUMENTS.  PARTY    AT    ERPING- 

HAM    HOUSE.  SAVILLE    ON    SOCIETY    AND    THE    TASTE    FOR 

THE  LITTLE.  DAVID  MANDEVILLE.  WOMEN,  THEIR  IN- 
FLUENCE AND  EDUCATION.  THE  NECESSITY  OF  AN  OB- 
JECT.   RELIGION. 

As  after  a  long  dream,  we  rise  to  the  occupations  of  life, 
even  so,  with  an  awakening  and  more  active  feeling,  I  re- 
turn from  characters  removed  from  the  ordinary  world  —  like 
Volktman  ^  and  his  daughter  —  to  the  brilliant  heroine  of  my 
narrative. 

1  After  all,  an  astrologer  —  nay,  a  cabalist  —  is  not  so  monstrous  a  prodigy 
in  the  nineteenth  century  !  In  tlie  year  1801,  Lackington  published  a  quarto, 
entitled  "  Magus  :  a  Complete  System  of  Occult  Philosophy ;  treating  of 
Alchemy,  the  Cabalistic  Art,  Natural  and  Celestial  Magic,"  etc.  —  and  a  very 


170  GODOLPHIN. 

There  is  a  certain  tone  about  Loudon  society  which  enfee- 
bles the  mind  without  exciting  it;  and  this  state  of  tempera- 
ment, more  than  all  others,  engenders  satiety.  In  classes 
that  border  upon  the  highest  this  effect  is  less  evident ;  for  in 
them  there  is  some  object  to  contend  for.  Fashion  gives 
them  an  inducement.  They  struggle  to  emulate  the  ton  of 
their  superiors.  It  is  an  ambition  of  trifles,  it  is  true ;  but  it 
is  still  ambition.  It  frets,  it  irritates,  but  it  keeps  them 
alive.  The  great  are  the  true  victims  of  ennui.  The  more 
firmly  seated  their  rank,  the  more  established  their  position, 
the  more  their  life  stagnates  into  insipidity.  Constance  was 
at  the  height  of  her  wishes.  No  one  was  so  courted,  so 
adored.  One  after  one,  she  had  humbled  and  subdued  all 
those  who,  before  her  marriage,  had  trampled  on  her  pride, 
or  who  after  it  had  resisted  her  pretensions:  a  look  from  her 
had  become  a  triumph,  and  a  smile  conferred  a  rank  on  its 
receiver.  But  this  empire  palled  upon  her:  of  too  large  a 
mind  to  be  satisfied  with  petty  pleasures  and  unreal  distinc- 
tions, she  still  felt  the  something  of  life  was  wanting.  She 
was  not  blessed  or  cursed  (as  it  may  be)  with  children,  and 
she  had  no  companion  in  her  husband.  There  might  be  times 
in  which  she  regretted  her  choice,  dazzling  as  it  had  proved; 
but  she  complained  not  of  sorrow,  but  monotony. 

Political  intrigue  could  not  fill  up  the  vacuum  of  which 
Constance  daily  complained ;  and  of  private  intrigue  the  then 
purity  of  her  nature  was  incapable.  When  people  have  really 
nothing  to  do,  they  generally  fall  ill  upon  it;  and  at  length 
the  rich  colour  grew  faint  upon  Lady  Erpingham's  cheek,  her 
form  wasted;  the  physicians  hinted  at  consumption,  and  rec- 
ommended a  warmer  clime.  Lord  Erpingham  seized  at  the 
proposition :  he  was  fond  of  Italy ;  he  was  bored  with  England. 

Very  stupid  people  often  become  very  musical :  it  is  a  sort 
of  pretension  to  intellect  that  suits  their  capacities.  Plutarch 
says  somewhere  that  the  best  musical  instruments  are  made 

impudent  publication  it  is  too.  That  Raphael  should  put  forth  astrological 
manuels  is  not  a  proof  of  his  belief  in  the  science  he  professes  ;  but  that  it 
should  nnsicer  to  Raphael  to  put  them  forth,  shows  a  tendency  to  belief  in  his 
purchasers. 


GODOLPHIN.  171 

from  the  jaw-bones  of  asses.  Plutarch  never  made  a  more 
sensible  observation.  Lord  Erpiugham  had  of  late  taken 
greatly  to  operas:  he  talked  of  writing  one  himself;  and  not 
being  a  performer,  he  consoled  himself  by  becoming  a  patron. 
Italy,  therefore,  presented  to  him  manifold  captivations, —  he 
thought  of  fiddling,  but  he  talked  only  of  his  wife's  health. 
Amidst  the  regrets  of  the  London  world,  they  made  their 
arrangements,  and  prepared  to  set  out  at  the  end  of  the  sea- 
son for  the  land  of  Paganini  and  Julius  Caesar. 

Two  nights  before  their  departure.  Lady  Erpingham  gave  a 
farewell  party  to  her  more  intimate  acquaintance.  Saville, 
who  always  contrived  to  be  well  with  every  one  who  was 
worth  the  trouble  it  cost  him,  was  of  course  among  the  guests. 
Years  had  somewhat  scathed  him  since  he  last  appeared  on 
our  stage.  Women  had  ceased  to  possess  much  attraction  for 
his  jaded  eyes :  gaming  and  speculation  had  gradually  spread 
over  the  tastes  once  directed  to  other  pursuits.  His  vivacity 
had  deserted  him  in  great  measure,  as  years  and  infirmity 
began  to  stagnate  and  knot  up  the  current  of  his  veins;  but 
conversation  still  possessed  for  and  derived  from  him  its 
wonted  attraction.  The  sparkling  jeu  d'esprit  had  only  so- 
bered down  into  the  quiet  sarcasm;  and  if  his  wit  rippled  less 
freshly  to  the  breeze  of  the  present  moment,  it  was  coloured 
more  richly  by  the  glittering  sands  which  rolled  down  from 
the  experience  that  overshadowed  the  current.  Por  the  wis- 
dom of  the  worldly  is  like  the  mountains  that,  sterile  with- 
out, conceal  within  them  unprofitable  ore:  only  the  filings 
and  particles  escape  to  the  daylight  and  sparkle  in  the  Avave; 
the  rest  wastes  idly  within.  The  Pactolus  takes  but  the  sand- 
drifts  from  the  hoards  lost  to  use  in  the  Tmolus. 

"And  how,"  said  Saville,  seating  himself  by  Lady  Erping- 
ham, "how  shall  we  bear  London  when  you  are  gone?  When 
society,  the  everlasting  draught,  had  begun  to  pall  upon  us, 
you  threw  your  pearl  into  the  cup ;  and  now  we  are  grown  so 
luxurious,  that  we  shall  never  bear  the  wine  without  the 
pearl." 

"But  the  pearl  gave  no  taste  to  the  wine:  it  only  dissolved 
itself, —  idly,  and  in  vain." 


172  GODOLPHIN. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Lady  Erpingham,  the  dullest  of  us,  having 
once  seen  the  pearl,  could  at  least  imagine  that  we  were  able 
to  appreciate  the  subtleties  of  its  influence.  Where,  in  this 
little  world  of  tedious  realities,  can  we  find  anything  even  to 
imagine  about,  when  you  abandon  us  ?  " 

"Nay!  do  you  conceive  that  I  am  so  ignorant  of  the  frame- 
work of  society  as  to  suppose  that  I  shall  not  be  easily  re- 
placed? King  succeeds  king,  without  reference  to  the  merits 
of  either ;  so,  in  London,  idol  follows  idol,  though  one  be  of 
jewels  and  the  other  of  brass.    Perhaps,  when  I  return,  I  shall 

find  you  kneeling  to  the  dull  Lady  A ,  or  worshipping  the 

hideous  Lady  Z ." 

"  '  Le  temps  assez  souvent  a  rendu  legitime 
Ce  qui  sembloit  d'abord  ne  se  pouvoir  sans  crime ; ' " 

answered  Saville,  with  a  mock  heroic  air.  "  The  fact  is,  that 
we  are  an  indolent  people;  the  person  who  succeeds  the  most 

with  us  has  but  to  push  the  most.    You  know  how  Mrs. , 

in  spite  of  her  red  arms,  her  red  gown,  her  city  pronuncia- 
tion, and  her  city  connections,  managed  —  by  dint  of  perse- 
verance alone  —  to  become  a  dispenser  of  consequence  to  the 
very  countesses  whom  she  at  first  could  scarcely  coax  into  a 
courtesy.  The  person  who  can  stand  ridicule  and  rudeness 
has  only  to  desire  to  become  the  fashion  —  she  or  he  must  be 
so  sooner  or  later." 

"  Of  the  immutability  of  one  thing  among  all  the  changes  I 
may  witness  on  my  return,  at  least  I  am  certain  no  one  still 
will  dare  to  think  for  himself.  The  great  want  of  each  indi- 
vidual is,  the  want  of  an  opinion !  For  instance,  who  judges 
of  a  picture  from  his  own  knowledge  of  painting?    Who  does 

not  wait  to  hear  what  Mr.  ,  or  Lord (one  of  the  six 

or  seven  privileged  connoisseurs),  says  of  it?  Nay,  not  only 
the  fate  of  a  single  picture,  but  of  a  whole  school  of  painting, 
depends  upon  the  caprice  of  some  one  of  the  self-elected  dic- 
tators.    The  King,  or  the  Duke  of ,  has  but  to  love  the 

Dutch  school  and  ridicule  the  Italian,  and  behold  a  Raphael 
will  not  sell,  and  a  Teniers  rises  into  infinite  value !  Dutch 
representations  of   candlesticks   and  boors  are   sought  after 


GODOLPHIX.  173 

with  the  most  rapturous  delight;  the  most  disagreeable  ob- 
jects of  nature  become  the  most  worshipped  treasures  of  art ; 
and  we  emulate  each  other  in  testifying  our  exaltation  of  taste 
by  contending  for  the  pictured  vulgarities  by  which  taste  it- 
self is  the  most  essentially  degraded.  In  fact,  too,  the  meaner 
the  object,  the  more  certain  it  is  with  us  of  becoming  the  rage. 
In  the  theatre,  we  run  after  the  farce;  in  painting,  we  wor- 
ship the  Dutch  school ;  in  —  " 
"Literature?"  said  Saville. 

«Xo! — our  literature  still  breathes  of  something  noble; 
but  why?  Because  books  do  not  always  depend  upon  a  clique. 
A  book,  in  order  to  succeed,  does  not  require  the  opinion  of 
;Mr.  Saville  or  Lady  Erpingham  so  much  as  a  picture  or  a 
ballet." 

"I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  answered  Saville,  as  he  withdrew 
presently  afterwards  to  a  card-table,  to  share  in  the  premedi- 
tated plunder  of  a  young  banker,  who  was  proud  of  the  honour 
of  being  ruined  by  persons  of  rank. 

In  another  part  of  the  rooms  Constance  found  a  certain  old 
philosopher,  whom  I  will  call  David  Mandeville.  There  was 
something  about  this  man  that  always  charmed  those  who  had 
sense  enough  to  be  discontented  with  the  ordinary  inhabitants. 
of  the  Microcosm, —  Society.  The  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance was  different  from  that  of  others ;  there  was  a  breathing 
goodness  in  his  face,  an  expansion  of  mind  on  his  forehead. 
You  perceived  at  once  that  he  did  not  live  among  triflers, 
nor  agitate  himself  with  trifles.  Serenity  beamed  from  his 
look  —  but  it  was  the  serenity  of  thought.  Constance  sat 
down  by  him. 

"Are  you  not  sorry,"  said  Mandeville,  "to  leave  England, 
—  you,  who  have  made  yourself  the  centre  of  a  circle  which, 
for  the  varieties  of  its  fascination,  has  never  perhaps  been 
equalled  in  this  country?  Wealth,  rank,  even  wit,  others 
might  assemble  round  them;  but  none  ever  before  convened 
into  one  splendid  galaxy  all  who  were  eminent  in  art,  famous 
in  letters,  wise  in  politics,  and  even  (for  who  but  you  were 
ever  above  rivalship?)  attractive  in  beauty.  I  should  have 
thought  it  easier  for  us  to  fly  from  the  Armida,  than  for  the 


174  GODOLPHIN. 

Armida  to  renounce  the  scene  of  her  enchantment, —  the  scene 
in  which  De  Stael  bowed  to  the  charms  of  her  conversation, 
and  Byron  celebrated  those  of  her  person." 

We  may  conceive  the  spell  Constance  had  cast  around  her, 
when  even  philosophy  (and  Mandeville  of  all  philosophers) 
had  learned  to  flatter;  but  his  flattery  was  sincerity. 

"Alas!"  said  Constance,  sighing,  "even  if  your  compli- 
ment were  altogether  true,  you  have  mentioned  nothing  that 
should  cause  me  regret.  Vanity  is  one  source  of  happiness, 
but  it  does  not  suffice  to  recompense  us  for  the  absence  of 
all  others.  In  leaving  England,  I  leave  the  scene  of  ever- 
lasting weariness.  I  am  the  victim  of  a  feeling  of  sameness, 
and  I  look  with  hope  to  the  prospect  of  change." 

"Poor  thing!  "  said  the  old  philosopher,  gazing  mournfully 
on  a  creature  who,  so  resplendent  with,  advantages,  yet  felt 
the  crumpled  rose-leaf  more  than  the  luxury  of  the  couch. 
"Wherever  you  go  the  same  polished  society  will  present  to 
you  the  same  monotony.  All  courts  are  alike:  men  have 
change  in  action;  but  to  women  of  your  rank  all  scenes  are 
alike.  You  must  not  look  without  for  an  object, —  you  must 
create  one  within.  To  be  happy  we  must  render  ourselves 
independent  of  others." 

"Like  all  philosophers,  you  advise  the  impossible,"  said 
Constance. 

"How  so?  Have  not  the  generality  of  your  sex  their  pecu- 
liar object?  One  has  the  welfare  of  her  children;  another 
the  interest  of  her  husband;  a  third  makes  a  passion  of 
economy;  a  fourth  of  extravagance;  a  fifth  of  fashion;  a 
sixth  of  solitude.  Your  friend  yonder  is  always  employed 
in  nursing  her  own  health:  hypochondria  supplies  her  with 
an  object;  she  is  really  happy  because  she  fancies  herself  ill. 
Every  one  you  name  has  an  object  in  life  that  drives  away 
ennui,  save  yourself." 

"I  have  one  too,"  said  Constance,  smiling,  "but  it  does  not 
fill  up  all  the  spaces  of  time.  The  intervals  between  the  acts 
are  longer  than  the  acts  themselves." 

"Is  your  object  religion?  "  asked  Mandeville,  simply. 

Constance  was  startled:  the  question  was  novel.     "I  fear 


GODOLPHIN.  175 

not,"  said  she,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  and  with  a  down- 
cast face. 

"As  I  thought,"  returned  Mandeville.  "N'ow  listen.  The 
reason  why  you  feel  weariness  more  than  those  around  you, 
is  solely  because  your  mind  is  more  expansive.  Small  minds 
easily  find  objects:  trifles  amuse  them;  but  a  high  soul  covets 
things  beyond  its  daily  reach:  trifles  occupy  its  aim  mechani- 
cally; the  thought  still  wanders  restless.  This  is  the  case 
with  you.  Your  intellect  preys  upon  itself.  You  would  have 
been  happier  if  your  rank  had  been  less ;  "  Constance  winced 
—  she  thought  of  Godolphin ;  "  for  then  you  would  have  been 
ambitious,  and  aspired  to  the  very  rank  that  now  palls  upon 
you."     Mandeville  continued, — 

"  You  women  are  at  once  debarred  from  public  life,  and  yet 
influence  it.  You  are  the  prisoners,  and  yet  the  despots  of 
society.  Have  you  talents?  it  is  criminal  to  indulge  them  in 
public;  and  thus,  as  talent  cannot  be  stifled,  it  is  misdirected 
in  private;  you  seek  ascendency  over  your  own  limited  cir- 
cle; and  what  should  have  been  genius  degenerates  into  cun- 
ning. Brought  up  from  your  cradles  to  dissembling  your 
most  beautiful  emotions,  your  finest  principles  are  always 
tinctured  with  artifice.  As  your  talents,  being  stripped  of 
their  wings,  are  driven  to  creep  along  the  earth,  and  imbibe 
its  mire  and  clay,  so  are  your  affections  perpetually  checked 
and  tortured  into  conventional  paths,  and  a  spontaneous  feel- 
ing is  punished  as  a  deliberate  crime.  You  are  untaught  the 
broad  and  soiind  principles  of  life:  all  that  you  know  of 
morals  are  its  decencies  and  forms.  Thus  you  are  incapable 
of  estimating  the  public  virtues  and  the  public  deficiencies 
of  a  brother  or  a  son ;  and  one  reason  why  toe  have  no  Brutus, 
is  because  ymi  have  no  Portia.  Turkey  has  its  seraglio  for 
the  person;  but  Custom  in  Europe  has  also  a  seraglio  for  the 
mind." 

Constance  smiled  at  the  philosopher's  passion;  but  she  was 
a  woman,  and  she  was  moved  by  it. 

"Perhaps,"  said  she,  "in  the  progress  of  events,  the  state 
of  the  women  may  be  improved  as  well  as  that  of  the  men." 

"Doubtless,  at  some  future  stage  of  the  world.     And  be- 


176  GODOLPHIN. 

lieve  me,  Lady  Erpingham,  politician  and  schemer  as  you 
are,  that  no  legislative  reform  alone  will  improve  mankind: 
it  is  the  social  state  which  requires  reformation." 

"But  you  asked  me  some  minutes  since,"  said  Constance, 
after  a  pause,  ''if  the  object  of  my  pursuit  was  religion.  I 
disappointed  but  not  surprised  you  by  my  answer." 

"Yes:  you  grieved  me,  because,  in  your  case,  religion 
could  alone  fill  the  dreary  vacuum  of  your  time.  For,  with 
your  enlarged  and  cultivated  mind,  you  would  not  view  the 
grandest  of  earthly  questions  in  a  narrow  and  sectarian  light. 
You  would  not  think  religion  consisted  in  a  sanctified  de- 
meanour, in  an  ostentatious  almsgiving,  in  a  harsh  judgment 
of  all  without  the  pale  of  your  opinions.  You  would  behold 
in  it  a  benign  and  harmonious  system  of  morality,  which 
takes  from  ceremony  enough  not  to  render  it  tedious  but  im- 
pressive. The  school  of  the  Bayles  and  Voltaires  is  annihi- 
lated. Men  begin  now  to  feel  that  to  philosophize  is  not  to 
sneer.  In  Doubt  we  are  stopped  short  at  every  outlet  beyond 
the  Sensual.  In  Belief  lies  the  secret  of  all  our  valuable  ex- 
ertion. Two  sentiments  are  enough  to  preserve  even  the 
idlest  temper  from  stagnation, —  a  desire  and  a  hope.  What 
then  can  we  say  of  the  desire  to  be  useful,  and  the  hope  to  be 
immortal?  " 

This  was  language  Constance  had  not  often  heard  before, 
nor  was  it  frequent  on  the  lips  of  him  who  now  uttered  it.  But 
an  interest  in  the  fate  and  happiness  of  one  in  whom  he  saw 
so  much  to  admire,  had  made  Mandeville  anxious  that  she 
should  entertain  some  principle  which  he  could  also  esteem. 
And  there  was  a  fervour,  a  sincerit}^,  in  his  voice  and  man- 
ner, that  thrilled  to  the  very  heart  of  Lady  Erpingham.  She 
pressed  his  hand  in  silence.  She  thought  afterwards  over  his 
words;'  but  worldly  life  is  not  easily  accessible  to  any  lasting 
impressions  save  those  of  vanity  and  love.  Eeligion  has  two 
sources, —  the  habit  of  early  years,  or  the  process  of  after 
thought.  But  to  Constance  had  not  been  fated  the  advantage 
of  the  first ;  and  how  can  deep  thought  of  another  world  be  a 
favourite  employment  with  the  scheming  woman  of  this? 

This   is   the   only  time   that  Mandeville   appears   in  this 


GODOLPHIN.  177 

work, —  a  type  of  the  rarity  of  the  intervention  of  religious 
■wisdom  on  the  scenes  of  real  life. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Saville,  as,  in  departing,  he  encoun- 
tered Constance  by  the  door,  and  made  his  final  adieus, — 
"by  the  way,  you  will  perhaps  meet,  somewhere  in  Italy, 
my  old  young  friend,  Percy  Godolphin.  He  has  not  been 
pleased  to  prate  of  his  whereabout  to  me ;  but  I  hear  that  he 
has  been  seen  lately  at  jSTaples." 

Constance  coloured,  and  her  heart  beat  violently ;  but  she 
answered  indifferently,  and  turned  away. 

The  next  morning  they  set  off  for  Italy.  But  within  one 
week  from  that  day,  what  a  change  awaited  Constance ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AMBITION    VINDICATED.  THE    HOME    OF    GODOLPHIN    AND    LU- 

CILLA.  LUCILLA's    MIND.  THE    EFFECT    OF    HAPPV    LOVE 

ON    FEMALE    TALENT.  THE    EVE    OF    FAREWELL.  LUCILLA 

ALONE.  TEST    OF    A    WOMAN 's    AFFECTION. 

0  MUCH-ABUSED  and  highly-slandered  passion !  —  passion 
rather  of  the  soul  than  the  heart;  hateful  to  the  pseudo- 
moralist,  but  viewed  with  favouring  though  not  undiscrimi- 
nating  eyes  by  the  true  philosopher, — bright-winged  and 
august  ambition!  It  is  well  for  fools  to  revile  thee,  because 
thou  art  liable,  like  other  utilities,  to  abuse !  The  wind  up- 
roots the  oak, —  but  for  every  oak  it  uproots  it  scatters  a 
thousand  acorns.  Ixion  embraced  the  cloud,  but  from  the 
embrace  sprang  a  hero.  Thou,  too,  hast  thy  fits  of  violence 
and  storm ;  but  without  thee,  life  would  stagnate.  Thou,  too, 
embracest  thy  clouds ;  but  even  thy  clouds  have  the  demigods 
for  their  offspring! 

It  was  the  great  and  prevailing  misfortune  of  Godolphin's 
life  that  he  had  early  taught  himself  to  be  superior  to  exer- 
tion.    His  talents,  therefore,  only  preyed  on  himself;   and 

12 


178  GODOLPHIN. 

instead  of  tlie  vigorous  and  daring  actor  of  the  world,  he  was 
alternately  the  indolent  sensualist  or  the  solitary  dreamer. 
He  did  not  view  the  stir  of  the  great  Babel  as  a  man  with  a 
wholesome  mind  should  do ;  and  thus  from  his  infirmities  we 
draw  a  moral.  The  moral  is  not  the  worse  in  that  it  opposes 
the  trite  moralities  of  those  who  would  take  from  action  its 
motive :  the  men  of  genius,  who  are  not  also  men  of  ambition, 
are  either  humourists,  or  visionaries,  or  hypochondriacs. 

By  the  side  of  one  of  the  Italian  lakes,  Godolpliin  and 
Lucilla  fixed  their  abode;  and  here  the  young  idealist  for 
some  time  imagined  himself  happy.  Never  until  now  so 
fond  of  Nature  as  of  cities,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  en- 
chantment of  the  Eden  around  him.  He  spent  the  long  sunny 
hours  of  noon  on  the  smooth  lake,  or  among  the  sheltering 
trees  by  which  it  was  encircled.  The  scenes  he  had  witnessed 
in  the  world  became  to  him  the  food  of  quiet  meditation, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  thought  did  not  weary  him 
with  its  sameness. 

When  his  steps  turned  homeward,  the  anxious  form  of 
Lucilla  waited  for  him ;  her  eye  brightened  at  his  approach, 
her  spirit  escaped  restraint  and  bounded  into  joy ;  and  Godol- 
phin,  touched  by  her  delight,  became  eager  to  witness  it, — 
he  felt  the  magnet  of  a  Home.  Yet  as  the  first  enthusiasm 
of  passion  died  away,  he  could  not  but  be  sensible  that  Lucilla 
was  scarcely  a  companion.  Her  fancy  was  indeed  lively,  and 
her  capacity  acute ;  but  experience  had  set  a  confined  limit  to 
her  ideas.  She  had  nothing  save  love,  and  a  fitful  tempera- 
ment, upon  which  she  could  draw  for  conversation.  Those 
whose  education  debars  them  from  deriving  instruction  from 
things  have  in  general  the  power  to  extract  amusement  from 
persons, —  they  can  talk  of  the  ridiculous  Mrs.  So-and-so,  or 
the  absurd  Mr.  Blank.  But  our  lovers  saw  no  society,  and 
thus  their  commune  was  thrown  entirely  on  their  internal 
resources. 

There  was  always  that  in  the  peculiar  mind  of  Godolphin 
which  was  inclined  towards  ideas  too  refined  and  subtle  even 
for  persons  of  cultivated  intellect.  If  Constance  could  scarcely 
comprehend  the  tone  of  his  character,  we  may  believe  that  to 


GODOLPHIN.  179 

Lucilla  he  was  wholly  a  mystery.  This,  perhaps,  enhanced 
her  love,  but  the  consciousness  of  it  disappointed  his.  He 
felt  that  what  he  considered  the  noblest  faculties  he  possessed 
were  unappreciated.  He  was  sometimes  angry  with  Lucilla 
that  she  loved  only  those  qualities  in  his  character  which 
he  shared  with  the  rest  of  mankind.  His  speculative  and 
Hamlet-Vike  temper  —  let  us  here  take  Goethe's  view  of 
Hamlet,  and  combine  a  certain  weakness  with  the  finer  traits 
of  the  royal  dreamer  —  perpetually  deserted  the  solid  world, 
and  flew  to  aerial  creations.  He  could  not  appreciate  the 
present.  Had  Godolphin  loved  Lucilla  as  he  once  thought 
that  he  should  love  her,  the  beauties  of  her  character  would 
have  blinded  him  to  its  defects ;  but  its  passion  had  been  too 
sudden  to  be  thoroughly  grounded.  It  had  arisen  from  the 
knowledge  of  her  affection,  not  grown  step  by  step  from  the 
natural  bias  of  his  own.  Between  the  interval  of  liking  and 
possession,  love  (to  be  durable)  should  pass  through  many 
stages.  The  doubt,  the  fear,  the  first  pressure  of  the  hand, 
the  first  kiss,  each  should  be  an  epoch  for  remembrance  to 
cling  to.  In  moments  of  after  coolness  or  anger,  the  mind 
should  fly  from  the  sated  present  to  the  million  tender  and 
freshening  associations  of  the  past.  With  these  associations 
the  affection  renews  its  youth.  How  vast  a  store  of  melting 
reflections,  how  countless  an  accumulation  of  the  spells  that 
preserve  constancy,  does  that  love  forfeit,  in  which  the 
memory  only  commences  with  possession! 

And  the  more  delicate  and  thoughtful  our  nature,  the  more 
powerful  are  these  associations.  Do  they  not  constitute  the 
immense  difference  between  the  love  and  the  intrigue?  All 
things  that  savour  of  youth  make  our  most  exquisite  sensa- 
tions, whether  to  experience,  or  recall:  thus,  in  the  seasons 
of  the  year,  we  prize  the  spring ;  and  in  the  effusions  of  the 
heart,  the  courtship. 

Beautiful,  too,  and  tender  —  wild  and  fresh  in  her  tender- 
ness—  as  Lucilla  was,  there  was  that  in  her  character,  in 
addition  to  her  want  of  education,  which  did  not  wholly  accord 
with  Godolphin's  preconception  of  the  being  his  fancy  had 
conjured  up.     His  calm  and  profound  nature  desired  one  in 


180  GODOLPHIN. 

whom  lie  could  not  only  confide,  but,  as  it  were,  repose.  Thus 
one  great  charm  that  had  attracted  him  to  Constance  was  the 
evenness  and  smoothness  of  her  temper.  But  the  self -formed 
mind  of  Lucilla  was  ever  in  a  bright,  and  to  him  a  wearying, 
agitation;  tears  and  smiles  perpetually  chased  each  other. 
Not  comprehending  his  character,  but  thinking  only  and 
wholly  of  him,  she  distracted  herself  with  conjectures  and 
suspicions,  which  she  was  too  ingenuous  and  too  impas- 
sioned to  conceal.  After  watching  him  for  hours,  she  would 
weep  that  he  did  not  turn  from  his  books  or  his  rerery  to 
search  also  for  her,  with  eyes  equally  yearning  and  tender 
as  her  own.  The  fear  in  absence,  the  absorbed  devotion 
when  present,  that  absolutely  made  her  existence,  she  was 
wretched  because  he  did  not  reciprocate  with  the  same  in- 
tensity of  soul.  She  could  conceive  nothing  of  love  but 
that  which  she  felt  herself;  and  she  saw,  daily  and  hourly, 
that  in  that  love  he  did  not  sympathize,  and  therefore  she 
embittered  her  life  by  thinking  that  he  did  not  return  her 
affection. 

"You  wrong  us  both,"  said  he,  in  answer  to  her  tearful 
accusations;   "but  our  sex  love  differently  from  yours." 

"Ah,"  she  replied,  "I  feel  that  love  has  no  varieties:  there 
is  but  one  love,  but  there  may  be  many  counterfeits." 

Godolphin  smiled  to  think  how  the  untutored  daughter  of 
nature  had  unconsciously  uttered  the  sparkling  aphorism  of 
the  most  artificial  of  maxim-makers. ^  Lucilla  saw  the  smile, 
and  her  tears  flowed  instantly. 

"Thou  mockest  me." 

"Thou  art  a  little  fool,"  said  Godolphin,  kindly,  and  he 
kissed  away  the  storm. 

And  this  was  ever  an  easy  matter.  There  was  nothing  un- 
feminine  or  sullen  in  Lucilla's  irregulated  moods;  a  kind 
word,  a  kind  caress,  allayed  them  in  an  instant,  and  turned 
the  transient  sorrow  into  sparkling  delight.  But  they  who 
know  how  irksome  is  the  perpetual  trouble  of  conciliation  to 
a  man  meditative  and  indolent  like  Godolphin,  will  appreciate 
the  pain  that  even  her  tenderness  occasioned  him. 
^  Rochefoucauld. 


GODOLPHIN.  181 

There  is  one  thing  very  noticeable  in  women  when  they 
have  once  obtained  the  object  of  their  life,—  the  sudden  check 
that  is  given  to  the  impulses  of  their  genius.  Content  to 
have  found  the  realization  of  their  chief  hope,  they  do  not 
look  beyond  to  other  but  lesser  objects,  as  they  had  been  wont 
to  do  before.  Hence  we  see  so  many  who,  before  marriage, 
strike  us  with  admiration  from  the  vividness  of  their  talents, 
and  after  marriage  settle  down  into  the  mere  machine.  We 
wonder  that  we  ever  feared,  while  we  praised,  the  brilliancy 
of  an  intellect  that  seems  now  never  to  wander  from  the 
limits  of  house  and  hearth.  So  with  poor  Lucilla;  her  rest- 
less mind  and  ardent  genius  had  once  seized  on  every  object 
within  their  reach:  she  had  taught  herself  music;  she  had 
learned  the  colourings  and  lines  of  art;  not  a  book  came  in 
her  way,  but  she  would  have  sought  to  extract  from  it  a  new 
idea.  But  she  was  now  with  Gk)dolphin,  and  all  other  occu- 
pations for  thought  were  gone ;  she  had  nothing  beyond  his 
love  to  wish  for,  nothing  beyond  his  character  to  learn.  He 
was  the  circle  of  hope,  and  her  heart  its  centre ;  all  lines  were 
equal  to  that  heart,  so  that  they  touched  him.  It  is  clear  that 
this  devotion  prevented  her,  however,  from  fitting  herself  to 
be  his  companion;  she  did  not  seek  to  accomplish  herself,  but 
to  study  him:  thus  in  her  extreme  love  was  another  reason 
why  that  love  was  not  adequately  returned. 

But  Godolphin  felt  all  the  responsibility  that  he  had  taken 
on  himself.  He  felt  how  utterly  the  happiness  of  this  poor 
and  solitary  child  —  for  a  child  she  was  in  character,  and 
almost  in  years  —  depended  upon  him.  He  roused  himself, 
therefore,  from  his  ordinary  selfishness,  and  rarely,  if  ever, 
gave  way  to  the  irritation  which  she  unknowingly  but  con- 
stantly kept  alive.  The  balmy  and  delicious  climate,  the 
liquid  serenity  of  the  air,  the  majestic  repose  with  which 
Nature  invested  the  loveliness  that  surrounded  their  home, 
contributed  to  soften  and  calm  his  mind;  and  he  had  persuaded 
Lucilla  to  look  without  despair  upon  his  occasional  although 
short  absences.  Sometimes  he  passed  two  or  three  weeks  at 
Rome,  sometimes  at  Naples  or  Florence.  He  knew  so  well 
how  necessary  such  intervals  of  absence  are  to  the  preserva- 


182  GODOLPHIN. 

tion  of  love,  to  the  defeat  of  that  satiety  which  creeps  over 
us  with  custom,  that  he  had  resolutely  enforced  it  as  a  neces- 
sity, although  always  under  the  excuse  of  business, —  a  plea 
that  Lucilla  could  understand  and  not  resist;  for  the  word 
"business"  seemed  to  her  like  destiny, —  a  call  that,  however 
odious,  we  cannot  disobey.  At  first,  indeed,  she  was  discon- 
solate at  the  absence  only  of  two  days;  but  when  she  saw 
how  eagerly  her  lover  returned  to  her,  with  what  a  fresh 
charm  he  listened  to  her  voice  or  her  song,  she  began  to  con- 
fess that  even  in  the  evil  might  be  good. 

By  degrees  he  accustomed  her  to  longer  intervals;  and 
Lucilla  relieved  the  dreariness  of  the  time  by  the  thousand 
little  plans  and  surprises  with  which  women  delight  in  re- 
ceiving the  beloved  wanderer  after  absence.  His  departure 
was  a  signal  for  a  change  in  the  house,  the  gardens,  the  ar- 
bour; and  when  she  was  tired  with  these  occupations,  she 
was  not  forbidden  at  least  to  write  to  him  and  receive  his 
letters.  Daily  intoxication!  and  men's  words  are  so  much 
kinder  when  written  than  they  are  when  uttered!  Fortu- 
nately for  Lucilla,  her  early  habits,  and  her  strange  qualities 
of  mind,  rendered  her  independent  of  companionship,  and 
fond  of  solitude. 

Often  Godolphin,  who  could  not  conceive  how  persons 
without  education  could  entertain  themselves,  taking  pity  on 
her  loneliness  and  seclusion,  would  say, — 

"  But  how,  Lucilla,  have  you  passed  this  long  day  that  I  have 
spent  away  from  you, —  among  the  woods  or  on  the  lake?  " 

And  Lucilla,  delighted  to  recount  to  him  the  history  of 
her  hours,  would  go  over  each  incident,  and  body  forth  every 
thought  that  had  occurred  to  her,  with  a  grave  and  serious 
minut.eness  that  evinced  her  capabilities  of  dispensing  with 
the  world. 

In  this  manner  they  passed  somewhat  more  than  two  years ; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  human  alloy,  it  was  perhaps  the  happiest 
period  of  Godolphin 's  life,  and  the  one  that  the  least  disap- 
pointed his  too-exacting  imagination.  Lucilla  had  had  one 
daughter,  but  she  died  a  few  weeks  after  birth.  She  wept 
over  the  perished  flower,  but  was  not  inconsolable;  for,  be- 


GODOLPHIX.  183 

fore  its  loss,  she  had  taught  herself  to  thiuk  no  affliction  could 
be  irremediable  that  did  not  happen  to  Godolphin.  Perhaps 
Godolphin  was  the  more  grieved  of  the  two;  men  of  his  char- 
acter are  fond  of  the  occupation  of  watching  the  growth  of 
minds;  they  put  in  practice  their  chimeras  of  education. 
Happy  child,  to  have  escaped  an  experiment! 

It  was  the  eve  before  one  of  Godolphin's  periodical  excur- 
sions, and  it  was  Eome  that  he  proposed  to  visit;  Godolphin 
had  lingered  about  the  lake  until  the  sun  had  set,  and  Lucilla, 
grown  impatient,  went  forth  to  seek  him.  The  day  had  been 
sultry,  and  now  a  sombre  and  breathless  calm  hung  over  the 
deepening  eve.  The  pines,  those  gloomy  children  of  the  for- 
est, which  shed  something  of  melancholy  and  somewhat  of 
sternness  over  the  brighter  features  of  an  Italian  landscape, 
drooped  heavily  in  the  breezeless  air.  As  she  came  on  the 
border  of  the  lake,  its  waves  lay  dark  and  voiceless ;  only,  at 
intervals,  the  surf,  fretting  along  the  pebbles,  made  a  low  and 
dreary  sound,  or  from  the  trees  some  lingering  songster  sent 
forth  a  shrill  and  momentary  note,  and  then  again  all 
became  — 

"  An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 
A  silence  sleeping  there." 

There  was  a  spot  where  the  trees,  receding  in  a  ring,  left 
some  bare  and  huge  fragments  of  stone  uncovered  by  verdure. 
It  was  the  only  spot  around  that  rich  and  luxuriant  scene  that 
was  not  in  harmony  with  the  soft  spirit  of  the  place :  might  I 
indulge  a  fanciful  comparison,  I  should  say  that  it  was  like 
one  desolate  and  gray  remembrance  in  the  midst  of  a  career 
of  pleasure.  On  this  spot  Godolphin  now  stood  alone,  look- 
ing along  the  still  and  purple  waters  that  lay  before  him. 
Lucilla,  with  a  light  step,  climbed  the  rugged  stones,  and 
touching  his  shoulder,  reproached  him  with  a  tender  playful- 
ness for  his  truancy. 

"Lucilla,"  said  he,  when  peace  was  restored,  "what  im- 
pressions does  this  dreary  and  prophetic  pause  of  nature  be- 
fore the  upgathering  of  the  storm  create  in  you?  Does  it 
inspire  you  with  melancholy,  or  thought,  or  fear?  " 

"  I  see  my  star,"  answered  Lucilla,  pointing  to  a  far  and  soli- 


184  GODOLPHIN. 

tary  orb,  which  hung  islanded  in  a  sea  of  cloud,  that  swept 
slowly  and  blackly  onward, —  "I  see  my  star,  and  I  think 
more  of  that  little  light  than  of  the  darkness  around  it," 

"  But  it  will  presently  be  buried  among  the  clouds,""  said 
Godolphin,  smiling  at  that  superstition  which  Lucilla  had 
borrowed  from  her  father. 

"But  the  clouds  pass  away,  and  the  star  endures." 

"You  are  of  a  sanguine  nature,  my  Lucilla."  Lucilla 
sighed. 

"Why  that  sigh,  dearest?  " 

"Because  I  am  thinking  how  little  even  those  who  love  us 
most  know  of  us!  I  never  tell  my  disquiet  and  sorrow. 
There  are  times  when  thou  wouldst  not  think  me  too  warmly 
addicted  to  hope !  " 

"And  what,  poor  idler,  have  you  to  fear?  " 

"Hast  thou  never  felt  it  possible  that  thou  couldst  love 
me  less?  " 

"Xever!" 

Lucilla  raised  her  large  searching  eyes,  and  gazed  eagerly 
on  his  face ;  but  in  its  calm  features  and  placid  brow  she  saw 
no  ground  for  augury,  whether  propitious  or  evil.  She  turned 
away. 

"I  cannot  think,  Lucilla,"  said  Godolphin,  "that  you  ever 
direct  those  thoughts  of  yours,  wandering  though  they  be,  to 
the  future.  Do  they  ever  extend  to  the  space  of  some  ten  or 
twenty  years?  " 

"No.  But  one  year  may  contain  the  whole  history  of  my 
future." 

As  she  spoke,  the  clouds  gathered  round  the  solitary  star  to 
which  Lucilla  had  pointed.  The  storm  was  at  hand;  they  felt 
its  approach,  and  turned  homeward. 

There  is  something  more  than  ordinarily  fearful  in  the 
tempests  that  visit  those  soft  and  garden  climes.  The  unfre- 
quency  of  such  violent  changes  in  the  mood  of  Nature  serves 
to  appall  us  as  with  an  omen ;  it  is  like  a  sudden  affliction  in 
the  midst  of  happiness,  or  a  wound  from  the  hand  of  one  we 
love.  For  the  stroke  for  which  we  are  not  prepared  we  have 
rather  despondency  than  resistance. 


GODOLPHIX.  185 

As  they  reached  their  home,  the  heavy  raindrops  began  to 
fall.  They  stood  for  some  minutes  at  the  casement,  watching 
the  coruscations  of  the  lightning  as  it  played  over  the  black 
and  hesivj  waters  of  the  lake.  Lucilla,  whom  the  influences 
of  Nature  always  strangely  and  mysteriously  affected,  clung 
pale  and  almost  trembling  to  Godolphin ;  but  even  in  her  fear 
there  was  delight  in  being  so  near  to  him  in  whose  love  alone 
she  thought  there  was  protection.  Oh,  what  luxury  so  dear 
to  a  woman  as  is  the  sense  of  dependence!  Poor  Lucilla!  it 
was  the  last  evening  she  ever  spent  with  one  whom  she  wor- 
shipped so  entirely. 

Godolphin  remained  up  longer  than  Lucilla.  When  he 
joined  her  in  her  room,  the  storm  had  ceased;  and  he  found 
her  standing  by  the  open  window,  and  gazing  on  the  skies 
that  were  now  bright  and  serene.  Far  in  the  deep  stillness 
of  midnight  crept  the  waters  of  the  lake,  hushed  once  more 
into  silence,  and  reflecting  the  solemn  and  unfathomable  stars. 
That  chain  of  hills,  which  but  to  name  awakens  countless 
memories  of  romance,  stretched  behind,  their  blue  and  dim 
summits  melting  into  the  skies;  and  over  one,  higher  than 
the  rest,  paused  the  new-risen  moon,  silvering  the  first  be- 
neath, and  farther  down,  breaking  with  one  long  and  yet  mel- 
lower track  of  light  over  the  waters  of  the  lake. 

As  Godolphin  approached  he  did  so,  unconsciously,  with  a 
hushed  and  noiseless  step.  There  is  something  in  the  quiet 
of  nature  like  worship;  it  is  as  if,  from  the  breathless  heart 
of  Things,  went  up  a  prayer  or  a  homage  to  the  Arch-Creator. 
One  feels  subdued  by  a  stillness  so  utter  and  so  august;  it  ex- 
tends itself  to  our  own  sensations,  and  deepens  into  an  awe. 

Both,  then,  looked  on  in  silence,  indulging  it  may  be  dif- 
ferent thoughts.  At  length,  Lucilla  said  softly,  "Tell  me, 
hast  thou  really  no  faith  in  my  father's  creed?  Are  the  stars 
quite  dumb?  Is  there  no  truth  in  their  movements,  no  proph- 
ecy in  their  lustre?  " 

"My  Lucilla,  reason  and  experience  tell  us  that  the  astrolo- 
gers nurse  a  dream  that  has  no  reality." 

"Reason!  well! —  Experience! —  why,  did  not  #/<y  father's 
mortal  illness  hurry  thee  from  home  at  the  very  time  in  which 


186  GODOLPHIN. 

mine  foretold  thy  departure  and  its  cause?  I  was  then  but  a 
child ;  yet  I  shall  never  forget  the  paleness  of  thy  cheek  when 
my  father  uttered  his  prediction." 

*'I,  too,  was  almost  a  child  then,  Lucilla." 

*'But  that  prediction  was  verified?  " 

"It  was  so;  but  how  many  did  Yolktman  utter  that  were 
never  verified?  In  true  science  there  are  no  chances,  no 
uncertainties." 

"And  my  father,"  said  Lucilla,  unheeding  the  answer, 
"always  foretold  that  thy  lot  and  mine  were  to  be  entwined." 

"And  the  prophecy,  perhaps,  disposed  you  to  the  fact. 
You  might  never  have  loved  me,  Lucilla,  if  your  thoughts 
had  not  been  driven  to  dwell  upon  me  by  the  prediction." 

"Nay;  I  thought  of  thee  before  I  heard  the  prophecy." 

"But  your  father  foretold  vie,  dearest,  cross  and  disap- 
pointment in  my  love, —  was  he  not  wrong;  am  I  not  blest 
with  you?  " 

Lucilla  threw  herself  into  her  lover's  arms,  and,  as  she 
kissed  him,  murmured,  "Ah,  if  I  could  make  thee  happy!  " 

The  next  day  Godolphin  departed  for  Eome.  Lucilla  was 
more  dejected  at  his  dejDarture  than  she  had  been  even  in  his 
earliest  absence.  The  winter  was  now  slowly  approaching, 
and  the  weather  was  cold  and  drear3^  That  year  it  was  un- 
usually rainy  and  tempestuous,  and  as  the  wild  gusts  howled 
around  her  solitary  home  —  how  solitary  now ! —  or  she  heard 
the  big  drops  hurrying  down  on  the  agitated  lake,  she  shud- 
dered at  her  own  despondent  thoughts,  and  dreaded  the  gloom 
and  loneliness  of  the  lengthened  night.  For  the  first  time 
since  she  had  lived  with  Godolphin  she  turned,  but  discon- 
solately, to  the  company  of  books. 

Works  of  all  sorts  filled  their  home,  but  the  spell  that  once 
spoke  to  her  from  the  page  was  broken.  If  the  book  was  not 
of  love,  it  possessed  no  interest;  if  of  love,  she  thought  the 
description  both  tame  and  false.  No  one  ever  painted  love 
so  as  fully  to  satisfy  another :  to  some  it  is  too  florid,  to  some 
too  commonplace;  the  god,  like  other  gods,  has  no  likeness 
on  earth,  and  every  wave  on  which  the  star  of  passion  beams 
breaks  the  lustre  into  different  refractions  of  light. 


GODOLPIIIN.  187 

As  one  day  she  was  turning  listlessly  over  some  books  that 
had  been  put  aside  by  Godolphin  in  a  closet,  and  hoping  to 
find  one  that  contained,  as  sometimes  happened,  his  com- 
ments or  at  least  his  marks,  she  was  somewhat  startled  to  find 
among  them  several  volumes  which  she  remembered  to  have 
belonged  to  her  father.  Godolphin  had  bought  them  after 
^'olktman's  death,  and  put  them  by  as  relics  of  his  singular 
friend,  and  as  samples  of  the  laborious  and  self-willed  aber- 
ration of  the  human  intellect. 

Few  among  these  works  could  Lucilla  comprehend,  for  they 
were  chiefly  in  other  tongues  than  the  only  two  with  which 
she  was  acquainted.  But  some,  among  which  were  manu- 
scripts by  her  father,  beautifully  written,  and  curiously  orna- 
mented (some  of  the  chief  works  on  the  vainer  sciences  are 
only  to  be  found  in  manuscript),  she  could  contrive  to  de- 
cipher by  a  little  assistance  from  her  memory,  in  recalling 
the  signs  and  hieroglyphics  which  her  father  had  often  ex- 
plained to  her,  and,  indeed,  caused  her  to  copy  out  for  him 
in  his  calculations.  Always  possessing  an  untaxed  and  un- 
questioned belief  in  the  astral  powers,  she  now  took  some  in- 
terest in  reading  of  their  mysteries.  Her  father,  secretly, 
perhaps,  hoping  to  bequeath  his  name  to  the  gratitude  of 
some  future  Hermes,  had  in  his  manuscripts  reduced  into  a 
system  many  scattered  theories  of  others,  and  many  dogmas 
of  his  own.  Over  these,  for  they  were  simpler  and  easier 
than  the  crabbed  and  mystical  speculations  in  the  printed 
books,  she  more  especially  pored;  and  she  was  not  sorry  at 
finding  fresh  reasons  for  her  untutored  adoration  of  the  stars 
and  apparitions  of  the  heavens. 

Still,  however,  these  bewildering  researches  made  but  a 
small  part,  comparatively  speaking,  of  the  occupation  of  her 
thoughts.  To  write  to  and  hear  from  Godolphin  had  become 
to  her  more  necessary  than  ever,  and  her  letters  were  fuller 
and  more  minute  in  their  details  of  love  than  even  in  the 
period  of  their  first  passion.  Wouldst  thou  know  if  the 
woman  thou  lovest  still  loves  thee,  trust  not  her  spoken 
words,  her  present  smiles;  examine  her  letters  in  absence, 
see  if  she  dwells,  as  she  once  did,  upon  trifies  —  but  trifles 


188  GODOLPHIN. 

relating  to  thee.     The  things  which  the  indifferent  forget  are 
among  the  most  treasured  meditations  of  love. 

But  Lucilla  was  not  satisfied  with  the  letters  —  frequent  as 
they  were  —  that  she  received  in  answer;  they  were  kind, 
affectionate,  but  the  something  was  wanting.  "  The  best  part 
of  beauty  is  that  which  no  picture  can  express."  That  which 
the  heart  most  asks  is  that  which  no  words  can  convey.  Hon- 
esty, patriotism,  religion, —  these  have  had  their  hypocrites 
for  life;  but  passion  permits  only  momentary  dissemblers. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

GODOLPHIN    AT   ROME.  —  THE    CURE    FOR   A   MORBID    IDExVLISM. 

HIS     EMBARRASSMENT     IN     REGARD     TO     LUCILLA.  THE 

RENCONTRE   WITH   AN    OLD    FRIEND.  —  THE   COLOSSEUM.  —  A 
SURPRISE. 

GoDOLPHiN  arrived  at  Eorae:  it  was  thronged  with  Eng- 
lish, Among  them  were  some  whom  he  remembered  with  es- 
teem in  England.  He  had  grown  a  little  weary  of  his  long 
solitude,  and  he  entered  with  eagerness  into  the  society  of 
those  who  courted  him.  He  was  still  an  object  of  great  in- 
terest to  the  idle;  and  as  men  grow  older,  they  become  less 
able  to  dispense  with  attention. 

He  was  pleased  to  find  his  own  importance,  and  he  tasted 
the  sweets  of  companionship  with  more  gust  than  he  had  yet 
done.  His  talents,  buried  in  obscurity,  and  uncalled  for  by 
the  society  of  Lucilla,  were  now  perpetually  tempted  into 
action,  and  stimulated  by  reward.  It  had  never  before  ap- 
peared to  him  so  charming  a  thing  to  shine;  for  before  he 
had  been  sated  with  even  that  pleasure.  Now,  from  long 
relaxation,  it  had  become  new ;  vanity  had  recovered  its  nice 
perception.  He  was  no  longer  so  absorbed  as  he  had  been  by 
visionary  images.  He  had  given  his  fancy  food  in  his  long 
solitude,  and  with  its  wild  co-mate;  and  being  somewhat  dis- 


GODOLPHIN.  189 

appointed  in  the  result,  the  living  world  became  to  him  a 
fairer  prospect  than  it  had  seemed  while  the  world  of  imagi- 
nation was  untried.  Nothing  more  confirms  the  health  of  the 
mind  than  indulging  its  favourite  infirmity  to  its  own  cure. 
So  Goethe,  in  his  memoirs,  speaking  of  "Werther,"  remarks, 
that  "the  composition  of  that  extravagant  work  cured  his 
character  of  extravagance." 

Godolphin  thought  often  of  Lucilla;  but  perhaps,  if  the 
truth  of  his  heart  were  known  even  to  himself,  a  certain  sen- 
timent of  pain  and  humiliation  was  associated  with  the  ten- 
derness of  his  remembrance.  With  her  he  had  led  a  life, 
romantic,  it  is  true,  but  somewhat  effeminate ;  and  he  thought 
now,  surrounded  by  the  gay  and  freshening  tide  of  the  world, 
somewhat  mawkish  in  its  romance.  He  did  not  experience  a 
desire  to  return  to  the  still  lake  and  the  gloomy  pines;  he 
felt  that  Lucilla  did  not  suffice  to  make  his  world.  He  would 
have  wished  to  bring  her  to  Eome;  to  live  with  her  more  in 
public  than  he  had  hitherto  done;  to  conjoin,  in  short,  her 
society  with  the  more  recreative  dissipation  of  the  world :  but 
there  were  many  obstacles  to  this  plan  in  his  fastidious  im- 
agination. So  new  to  the  world,  its  ways,  its  fashions,  so 
strange  and  infantine  in  all  things  as  Lucilla  was,  he  trem- 
bled to  expose  her  inexperience  to  the  dangers  that  would  be- 
set it.  He  knew  that  his  "friends"  would  pay  very  little 
respect  to  her  reserve;  and  that  for  one  so  lovely  and  un- 
hackneyed, the  snares  of  the  wildest  and  most  subtle  adepts 
of  intrigue  would  be  set.  Godolphin  did  not  undervalue 
Lucilla's  pure  and  devoted  heart;  but  he  knew  that  the  only 
sure  antidote  against  the  dangers  of  the  world  is  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  There  was  nothing  in  Lucilla  that  ever 
promised  to  attain  that  knowledge;  her  very  nature  seemed 
to  depend  on  her  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  others.  Joined 
to  this  fear  and  a  confused  sentiment  of  delicacy  towards  her, 
a  certain  remorseful  feeling  in  himself  made  him  dislike 
bringing  their  connection  immediately  before  the  curious  and 
malignant  world:  so  much  had  circumstance,  and  Lucilla's 
own  self-willed  temper  and  uncalculating  love,  contributed  to 
drive  the  poor  girl  into  his  arms,  and  so  truly  had  he  chosen 


190  GODOLPHIN. 

the  generous  not  the  selfish  part,  until  passion  and  nature 
were  exposed  to  a  temptation  that  could  have  been  withstood 
by  none  but  the  adherent  to  sterner  principles  than  he  (the 
creature  of  indolence  and  feeling)  had  ever  clung  "to,  that 
Godolphin,  viewing  his  habits,  his  education,  his  whole  bias 
and  frame  of  mind,  the  estimates  and  customs  of  the  world, 
may  not,  perhaps,  be  very  rigidly  judged  for  the  nature  of  his 
tie  to  Lucilla.  But  I  do  not  seek  to  excuse  it,  nor  did  he 
wholly  excuse  it  to  himself.  The  image  of  Volktman  often 
occurred  to  him,  and  always  in  reproach.  Living  with  Lucilla 
in  a  spot  only  trod  by  Italians,  so  indulgent  to  love,  and 
where  the  whisper  of  shame  could  never  reach  her  ear  or 
awaken  Ms  remorse,  her  state  did  not,  however,  seem  to  her 
or  himself  degraded,  and  the  purity  of  her  girlish  mind  al- 
most forbade  the  intrusion  of  the  idea.  But  to  bring  her  into 
public,  among  his  own  countrymen,  and  to  feel  that  the  gen- 
erous and  devoted  girl,  now  so  unconscious  of  sin,  would  be 
rated  by  English  eyes  with  the  basest  and  most  abandoned 
of  the  sex,  with  the  glorifiers  in  vice  or  the  hypocrites  for 
money,  —  this  was  a  thought  which  he  could  not  contemplate, 
and  which  he  felt  he  would  rather  pass  his  life  in  solitude 
than  endure.  But  this  very  feeling  gave  an  embarrassment 
to  his  situation  with  Lucilla,  and  yet  more  fixedly  combined  her 
image  with  that  of  a  wearisome  seclusion  and  an  eternal  ennui. 

From  the  thought  of  Lucilla,  coupled  with  its  many  embar- 
rassments, Godolphin  turned  with  avidity  to  the  easy  enjoy- 
ments of  life, —  enjoyments  that  ask  no  care  and  dispense 
with  the  trouble  of  reflection. 

But  among  the  visitors  to  Rome,  the  one  whose  sight  gave 
to  Godolphin  the  greatest  pleasure  was  his  old  friend,  Augus- 
tus Saville.  A  decaying  constitution,  and  a  pulmonary  attack 
in  especial,  had  driven  the  accomplished  voluptuary  to  a  war- 
mer climate.  The  meeting  of  the  two  friends  was  quite  char- 
acteristic; it  was  at  a  soiree  at  an  English  house.  Saville 
had  managed  to  get  up  a  whist-table. 

"  Look,  Saville,  there  is  Godolphin,  your  old  friend !  "  cried 
the  host,  who  was  looking  on  the  game,  and  waiting  to 
cut  in. 


GODOLPHIN.  191 

"Hist!"  said  Saville;  "don't  direct  his  attention  to  me 
until  after  the  odd  trick!  " 

Notwithstanding  this  coolness  when  a  point  was  in  ques- 
tion, Saville  was  extremely  glad  to  meet  his  former  pupil. 
They  retired  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  talked  over  the 
world.  Godolphin  hastened  to  turn  the  conversation  on  Lady 
Erpingham. 

"Ah,"  said  Saville,  "I  see  from  your  questions,  and  yet 
more  your  tone  of  voice,  that  although  it  is  now  several  years 
since  you  met,  you  still  preserve  the  sentiment,  the  weakness 
—    Ah!  bah!" 

"Pshaw!"  said  Godolphin;  "I  owe  her  revenge,  not  love. 
But  Erpingham?     Does  she  love  him?     He  is  handsome." 

"Erpingham?     What  —  you  have  not  heard  —  " 

"Heard  what?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  but,  pardon  me,  they  wait  for  me  at  the 
card-table.  I  should  like  to  stay  with  you,  but  you  know  one 
must  not  be  selfish ;  the  table  would  be  broken  up  without  me. 
No  virtue  without  self-sacrifice,  eh?  " 

"  But  one  moment.  What  is  the  matter  with  the  Erping- 
hams;  have  they  quarrelled?" 

"Quarrelled?  Bah!  Quarrelled?  no;  I  dare  say  she  likes 
him  better  now  than  ever  she  did  before."  And  Saville 
limped  away  to  the  table. 

Godolphin  remained  for  some  time  abstracted  and  thought- 
ful. At  length,  just  as  he  was  going  away,  Saville,  who,  hav- 
ing an  unplayable  hand  and  a  bad  partner,  had  somewhat  lost 
his  interest  in  the  game,  looked  up  and  beckoned  to  him. 

"  Godolphin,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am  to  escort  a  lady  to  see 
the  lions  to-morrow;  a  widow, —  a  rich  widow;  handsome, 
too.  Do,  for  charity's  sake,  accompany  us,  or  meet  us  at  the 
Colosseum.     How  well  that  sounds,  eh?     About  two." 

Godolphin  refused  at  first,  but  being  pressed,  assented. 

Not  surrounded  by  the  lesser  glories  of  modern  Rome,  but 
girt  with  the  mighty  desolation  of  the  old  city  of  Romulus, 
stands  the  most  wonderful  monument,  perhaps,  in  the  world,  of 
imperial  magnificence,  — the  Flavian  Amphitheatre,  to  which, 
it  has  been  believed,  the  colossal  statue  of  the  worst  of  em- 


192  GODOLPHIN. 

perors  gave  that  name  (the  Colosseum!),  allied  with  the  least 
ennobling  remembrances  yet  giving  food  to  the  loftiest 
thoughts.  The  least  ennobling  remembrances;  for  what  can 
be  more  degrading  than  the  amusements  of  a  degraded  peo- 
ple, who  reserved  meekness  for  their  tyrants,  and  lavished 
ferocity  on  their  shows?  From  that  of  the  wild  beast  to  that 
of  the  Christian  martyr,  blood  has  been  the  only  sanctifica- 
tion  of  this  temple  to  the  Arts.  The  history  of  the  Past 
broods  like  an  air  over  those  mighty  arches ;  but  Memory  can 
find  no  reminiscence  worthy  of  the  spot.  The  amphitheatre 
was  not  built  until  history  had  become  a  record  of  the  vice 
and  debasement  of  the  human  race.  The  Faun  and  the  Dryad 
had  deserted  the  earth;  no  sweet  superstition,  the  faith  of 
the  grotto  and  the  green  hill,  could  stamp  with  a  delicate  and 
undying  spell  the  labours  of  man.  Nor  could  the  ruder  but 
august  virtues  of  the  heroic  age  give  to  the  tradition  of  the 
arch  and  column  some  stirring  remembrance  or  exalting 
thought.  Not  only  the  warmth  of  fancy,  but  the  greatness 
of  soul  was  gone ;  the  only  triumph  left  to  genius  was  to  fix 
on  its  page  the  gloomy  vices  which  made  the  annals  of  the 
world.  Tacitus  is  the  historian  of  the  Colosseum.  But  the 
very  darkness  of  the  past  gives  to  the  thoughts  excited  within 
that  immense  pile  a  lofty  but  mournful  character.  A  sense 
of  vastness  —  for  which,  as  we  gaze,  we  cannot  find  words, 
but  which  bequeaths  thoughts  that  our  higher  faculties  would 
not  willingly  forego  — ■  creeps  within  us  as  we  gaze  on  this 
Titan  relic  of  gigantic  crimes  forever  passed  away  from  the 
world. 

And  not  only  within  the  scene,  but  around  the  scene,  what 
voices  of  old  float  upon  the  air!  Yonder  the  triumphal  arch 
of  Constantine,  its  Corinthian  arcades,  and  the  history  of 
Trajan  sculptured  upon  its  marble;  the  dark  and  gloomy  ver- 
dure of  the  Palatine;  the  ruins  of  the  palace  of  the  Caesars; 
the  mount  of  Fable,  of  Fame,  of  Luxury  (the  Three  Epochs 
of  Nations);  the  habitation  of  Saturn;  the  home  of  Tully;  the 
sight  of  the  Golden  House  of  Nero!  Look  at  your  feet,  look 
around;  the  waving  weed,  the  broken  column,— Time's  wit- 
ness, and  the  Earthquake's.     In  that  contrast  between  grand- 


GODOLPHIX.  193 

eur  and  decay,  in  the  unutterable  and  awful  solemnity  that, 
while  rife  with  the  records  of  past  ages,  is  sad  also  with  their 
ravage,  you  have  felt  the  nature  of  eternity! 

Through  this  vast  amphitheatre,  and  giving  way  to  such 
meditations,  Godolphin  passed  on  alone,  the  day  after  his 
meeting  with  Saville ;  and  at  the  hour  he  had  promised  the 
latter  to  seek  him,  he  mounted  the  wooden  staircase  which 
conducts  the  stranger  to  the  wonders  above  the  arena,  and  by 
one  of  the  arches  that  looked  over  the  still  pines  that  slept 
afar  off  in  the  sun  of  noon,  he  saw  a  female  in  deep  mourning, 
whom  Saville  appeared  to  be  addressing.  He  joined  them; 
the  female  turned  round,  and  he  beheld,  pale  and  saddened, 
but  how  glorious  still,  the  face  of  Constance! 

To  him  the  interview  was  unexpected,  by  her  foreseen.  The 
colour  flushed  over  her  cheek,  the  voice  sank  inaudible  within. 
But  Godolphin's  emotion  was  more  powerful  and  uncontrolled : 
violent  tremblings  literally  shook  him  as  he  stood;  he  gasped 
for  breath;  the  sight  of  the  dead  returned  to  earth  would  have 
affected  him  less. 

In  this  immense  ruin,  in  the  spot  where,  most  of  earth, 
man  feels  the  insignificance  of  an  individual  life,  or  of  the 
rapid  years  over  which  it  extends,  he  had  encountered,  sud- 
denly, the  being  who  had  coloured  all  his  existence.  He  was 
reminded  at  once  of  the  grand  epoch  of  his  life,  and  of  its 
utter  unimportance.  But  these  are  the  thoughts  that  would 
occur  rather  to  us  than  him.  Thought  at  that  moment  was  an 
intolerable  flash  that  burst  on  him  for  an  instant,  and  then 
left  all  in  darkness.  He  clung  to  the  shattered  corridor  for 
support.  Constance  seemed  touched  and  surprised  by  so 
overwhelming  an  emotion,  and  the  habitual  hypocrisy  in 
which  women  are  reared,  and  by  which  they  learn  to  conceal 
the  sentiments  they  experience,  and  affect  those  they  do  not, 
came  to  her  assistance  and  his  own. 

"It  is  many  years,  Mr.  Godolphin,"  said  she,  in  a  collected 
but  soft  voice,  "since  we  met." 

"Years!"  repeated  Godolphin,  vaguely,  and  approaching 
her  with  a  slow  and  faltering  step;  "years!  you  have  not 
numbered  them !  " 

13 


194  GODOLPHIX. 

Saville  had  retired  a  few  steps  on  Godolphin's  arrival,  and 
had  watched  with  a  sardonic  yet  indifferent  smile  the  proof 
of  his  friend's  weakness.     He  joined  Godolphin,  and  said, — 

"  You  must  forgive  me,  my  dear  Godolphin,  for  not  appris- 
ing you  before  of  Lady  Erpingham's  arrival  at  Rome;  but  a 
delight  is  perhaps  the  greater  for  being  sudden," 

The  word  Erpingham  thrilled  displeasingly  through  Godol- 
phin's  veins;  in  some  measure  it  restored  him  to  himself. 
He  bowed  coldly,  and  muttered  a  few  ceremonious  words; 
and  while  he  was  yet  speaking,  some  stragglers  that  had  be- 
longed to  Lady  Erpingham's  party  came  up.  Fortunately, 
perhaps,  for  the  self-possession  of  both,  they,  the  once  lovers, 
were  separated  from  each  other.  But  whenever  Constance 
turned  her  glance  to  Godolphin,  she  saw  those  large,  search- 
ing, melancholy  eyes,  whose  power  she  well  recalled,  fixed 
unmovingly  on  her,  as  seeking  to  read  in  her  cheek  the 
history  of  the  years  which  had  ripened  its  beauties  —  for 
another. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

DIALOGUE     BETWEEN      GODOLPHIX     AND      SAVILLE.  —  CERTAIN 

EVENTS      EXPLAINED.  SAVILLE's      APOLOGY     FOR     A      BAD 

HEART.  GODOLPHIn's     CONFUSED    SENTIMENTS    FOR     LADY 

ERPINGHAM. 

"Good  heavens  I     Constance  Vernon  once  more  free!  " 

"And  did  you  not  really  know  it?  Your  retreat  by  the 
lake  must  have  been  indeed  seclusion.  It  is  seven  months 
since  Lord  Erpingham  died." 

"Do  I  dream?"  murmured  Godolphin,  as  he  strode  hur- 
riedly to  and  fro  the  apartment  of  his  friend. 

Saville,  stretched  on  the  sofa,  diverted  himself  with  mixing 
snuffs  on  a  little  table  beside  him.  Nothing  is  so  mournfully 
amusing  in  life  as  to  see  what  trifles  the  most  striking  occur- 
rences  to  us  appear  to  our  friends. 


GODOLPHIN.  195 

"But,"  said  Saville,  not  looking  up,  "you  seem  very  incu- 
rious to  know  how  he  died,  and  where.  You  must  learn  that 
Erpingham  had  two  ruling  passions, —  one  for  horses,  the 
other  for  fiddlers.  In  setting  off  for  Italy  he  expected,  natu- 
rally enough,  to  find  the  latter,  but  he  thought  he  might  as 
well  export  the  former.  He  accordingly  filled  the  vessel  with 
quadrupeds,  and  the  second  day  after  landing  he  diverted  the 
tedium  of  a  foreign  clime  with  a  gentle  ride.  He  met  Avith  a 
fall,  and  was  brought  home  speechless.  The  loss  of  speech 
was  not  of  great  importance  to  his  acquaintance ;  but  he  died 
that  night,  and  the  loss  of  his  life  was! — for  he  gave  very 
fair  dinners  —  ah,  bah!  "  And  Saville  inhaled  the  fragrance 
of  a  new  mixture. 

Saville  had  a  very  pleasant  way  of  telling  a  story,  particu- 
larly if  it  related  to  a  friend's  death,  or  some  such  agreeable 
incident.  "Poor  Lady  Erpingham  was  exceedingly  shocked; 
and  well  she  might  be,  for  I  don't  think  weeds  become  her. 
She  came  here  by  slow  stages,  in  order  that  the  illustrious 
Dead  might  chase  away  the  remembrance  of  the  deceased." 

"Your  heart  has  not  improved,  Saville." 

"Heart!  What's  that?  Oh,  a  thing  servant-maids  have, 
and  break  for  John  the  footman.  Heart!  my  dear  fellow, 
you  are  turned  canter,  and  make  use  of  words  without 
meaning." 

Godolphin  was  not  prepared  for  a  conversation  of  this 
order;  and  Saville,  in  a  somewhat  more  serious  air,  con- 
tinued: "Ever}^  person,  Godolphin,  talks  about  the  world. 
The  world!  it  conveys  different  meanings  to  each,  according 
to  the  nature  of  that  circle  which  makes  his  world.  But  we 
all  agree  in  one  thing, — the  worldliness  of  the  world.  Now, 
no  man's  world  is  so  void  of  affection  as  ours, —  the  polished, 
the  courtly,  the  great  world;  the  higher  the  air,  the  more 
pernicious  to  vegetation.  Our  very  charm,  our  very  fascina- 
tion, depends  upon  a  certain  mockery;  a  subtle  and  fine  ridi- 
cule on  all  persons  and  all  things  constitutes  the  essence  of 
our  conversation.  Judge  if  that  tone  be  friendly  to  the  seri- 
ousness of  the  affections.  Some  poor  dog  among  us  marries, 
and  household  plebeianisms  corrupt  the  most  refined.    Custom 


196  GODOLPHIN. 

attaches  the  creature  to  his  ugly  wife  and  his  squalling  chil- 
dren; he  grows  affectionate,  and  becomes  out  of  fashion.  But 
we  single  men,  dear  Godolphin,  have  no  one  to  care  for  but 
ourselves;  the  deaths  that  happen,  unlike  the  ties  that  fall 
from  the  married  men,  do  not  interfere  with  our  domestic 
comforts.  We  miss  no  one  to  make  our  tea,  or  give  us  our 
appetite-pills  before  dinner.  Our  losses  are  not  intimate  and 
household.  We  shrug  our  shoulders,  and  are  not  a  whit  the 
worse  for  them.  Thus,  for  want  of  grieving  and  caring  and 
fretting,  we  are  happy  enough  to  grow  —  come,  I  will  use  an 
epithet  to  please  you  —  hard-hearted !  We  congeal  into  phi- 
losophy; and  are  we  not  then  wise  in  adopting  this  life  of 
isolation  and  indifference?" 

Godolphin,  rapt  in  reflection,  scarcely  heeded  the  volup- 
tuary, but  Saville  continued;  he  had  grown  to  that  height  in 
loneliness  that  he  even  loved  talking  to  himself. 

"Yes,  wise!  For  this  world  is  so  filled  with  the  selfish, 
that  he  who  is  not  so  labours  under  a  disadvantage.  Nor  are 
wc  the  worse  for  our  apathy.  If  we  jest  at  a  man's  misfor- 
tune, we  do  not  do  it  to  his  face.  Why  not  out  of  the  ill, 
which  is  misfortune,  extract  good,  which  is  amusement? 
Three  men  in  this  room  are  made  cheerful  by  a  jest  at  a 
broken  leg  in  the  next.  Is  the  broken  leg  the  worse  for  it? 
No;  but  the  three  men  are  made  merry  by  the  jest.  Is  the 
jest  wicked,  then?  Nay,  it  is  a  benevolence.  But  some  cry, 
'Ay,  but  this  habit  of  disregarding  misfortunes  blunts  your 
wills  when  you  have  the  power  to  relieve  them.'  Relieve! 
was  ever  such  delusion?  What  can  we  relieve  in  the  vast 
mass  of  human  misfortunes?  As  well  might  we  take  a  drop 
from  the  ocean,  and  cry,  'Ha,  ha!  we  have  lessened  the  sea!  ' 
What  are  even  your  public  charities ;  what  your  best  institu- 
tions? How  few  of  the  multitude  are  relieved  at  all;  how 
few  of  that  few  relieved  permanently!  Men  die,  suffer, 
starve  just  as  soon,  and  just  as  numerously;  these  public  in- 
stitutions are  only  trees  for  the  public  conscience  to  go  to 
roost  upon.  No,  my  dear  fellow,  everything  I  see  in  the 
world  says,  Take  care  of  thyself.  This  is  the  true  moral  of 
life;  every  one  who  minds  it  gets  on,  thrives,  and  fattens; 


GODOLPHIN.  197 

they  who  don't,  come  to  us  to  borrow  money,  if  gentlemen; 
or  fall  upon  the  parish,  if  plebeians.  /  mind  it,  my  dear 
Godolphin;  I  have  minded  it  all  my  life;  I  am  very  con- 
tented—  content  is  the  sign  of  virtue, —  ah,  bah!" 

Yes;  Constance  was  a  widow.  The  hand  of  her  whom 
Percy  Godolphin  had  loved  so  passionately,  and  whose  voice 
even  now  thrilled  to  his  inmost  heart  and  awakened  the 
echoes  that  had  slept  for  years,  it  was  once  more  within  her 
power  to  bestow,  and  within  his  to  demand.  "What  a  host  of 
emotions  this  thought  gave  birth  to!  Like  the  coming  of  the 
Hindoo  god,  she  had  appeared,  and  lo,  there  was  a  new 
world!  "And  her  look,"  he  thought,  "was  kind,  her  voice 
full  of  a  gentle  promise,  her  agitation  was  visible.  She  loves 
me  still.  Shall  I  fly  to  her  feet?  Shall  I  press  for  hope? 
And,  oh,  what,  what  happiness !   but  Lucilla  !  " 

This  recollection  was  indeed  a  barrier  that  never  failed  to 
present  itself  to  every  prospect  of  hope  and  joy  which  the 
image  of  Constance  coloured  and  called  forth.  Even  for  the 
object  of  his  first  love,  could  he  desert  one  who  had  forsaken 
all  for  him,  whose  life  was  wrapped  up  in  his  affection?  The 
very  coolness  with  which  he  was  sensible  he  had  returned  the 
attachment  of  this  poor  girl  made  him  more  alive  to  the  duties 
he  owed  her.  If  not  bound  to  her  by  marriage,  he  considered 
with  a  generosity  —  barely  in  truth  but  justice,  yet  how  rare 
in  the  world !  —  that  the  tie  between  them  was  sacred,  that 
only  death  could  dissolve  it.  And  now  that  tie  was,  per- 
haps, all  that  held  him  from  attaining  the  dream  of  his  past 
life. 

Absorbed  in  these  ideas,  Godolphin  contrived  to  let  Saville's 
unsympathizing  discourse  glide  unheeded  along,  without  re- 
flecting its  images  on  the  sense,  until  the  name  of  Lady  Erp- 
ingham  again  awakened  his  attention. 

"You  are  going  to  her  this  evening,"  said  Saville;  "and 
you  may  thank  me  for  that;  for  I  asked  you  if  you  were 
thither  bound  in  her  hearing,  in  order  to  force  her  into  grant- 
ing you  an  invitation.  She  only  sees  her  most  intimate 
friends, —  you,  me,  and  Lady  Charlotte  Deerham.  Widows 
are  shy  of  acquaintance  during  their  first  affliction.     I  always 


198  GODOLPHIN. 

manage,  however,  to  be  among  the  admitted  —  caustic  is  good 
for  some  wovmds." 

"Nay,"  said  Godolphin,  smiling,  "it  is  your  friendly  dis- 
position that  makes  them  sure  of  sympathy." 

"You  have  hit  it.  But,"  continued  Saville,  "do  you  think 
Madame  likely  to  marry  again,  or  shall  you  yourself  adven- 
ture?    Erpingham  has  left  her  nearly  his  whole  fortune." 

Irritated  and  impatient  at  Saville's  tone,  Godolphin  rose. 
"Between  you  and  me,"  said  Saville,  in  wishing  him  good-by, 
"  I  don't  think  she  will  ever  marry  again.  Lady  Erpingham 
is  fond  of  power  and  liberty;  even  the  young  Godolphin  — 
and  you  are  not  so  handsome  as  you  were  —  will  find  it  a 
hopeless  suit." 

"  Pshaw !  "  muttered  Godolphin,  as  he  departed.  But  the 
last  words  of  Saville  had  created  a  new  feeling  in  his  breast. 
It  was  then  possible,  nay,  highly  probable,  that  he  might 
have  spared  himself  the  contest  he  had  undergone,  and  that 
the  choice  between  Lucilla  and  Constance  might  never  be 
permitted  him. 

"At  all  events,"  said  he,  almost  aloud,  "I  will  see  if  this 
conjecture  be  true;  if  Constance,  yet  remembering  our  early 
love,  yet  feeling  for  the  years  of  secret  pining  which  her  am- 
bition bequeathed  me,  should  appear  willing  to  grant  me  the 
atonement  fate  has  placed  within  her  power,  then,  then,  it 
will  be  time  for  this  self-sacrifice." 

The  social  relations  of  the  sex  often  make  men  villanous  — 
they  more  often  make  them  weak. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

AN   EVENING    WITH    CONSTANCE. 


Constance's  heart  was  in  her  eyes  when  she  saw  Godol- 
phin that  evening.  She  had,  it  is  true,  as  Saville  observed, 
been  compelled  by  common  courtesy  to  invite  him;  and  al- 


GODOLPHIN.  199 

though  there  was  an  embarrassment  in  their  meeting,  who 
shall  imagine  that  it  did  not  bring  to  Constance  more  of  pleas- 
ure than  pain?  She  had  been  deeply  shocked  by  Lord  Erp- 
ingham's  sudden  death ;  they  had  not  been  congenial  minds, 
but  the  great  have  an  advantage  denied  to  the  less  wealthy 
orders.  Among  the  former,  a  husband  and  wife  need  not 
weary  each  other  with  constant  companionships;  different 
establishments,  different  hours,  different  pursuits,  allow  them 
to  pass  life  in  great  measure  apart,  so  that  there  is  no  neces- 
sity for  hatred,  and  indifference  is  the  coldest  feeling  which 
custom  induces. 

Still  in  the  prime  of  youth  and  at  the  zenith  of  her  beauty, 
Constance  was  now  independent.  She  was  in  the  enjoyment 
of  the  wealth  and  rank  her  early  habits  of  thought  had  deemed 
indispensable,  and  she  now  for  the  first  time  possessed  the 
power  of  sharing  them  with  whom  she  pleased.  At  this 
thought  how  naturally  her  heart  flew  back  to  Godolphin! 
And  while  she  now  gazed,  although  by  stealth,  at  his  counte- 
nance, as  he  sat  at  a  little  distance  from  her,  and  in  his  turn 
watched  for  the  tokens  of  past  remembrance,  she  was  deeply 
touched  by  the  change  (light  as  it  seemed  to  others)  which 
years  had  brought  to  him;  and  in  recalling  the  emotion  he 
had  testified  at  meeting  her,  she  suffered  her  heart  to  soften, 
while  it  reproached  her  in  whispering,  "  Thou  art  the  cause !  " 
All  the  fire,  the  ardour  of  a  character  not  then  confirmed, 
which,  when  she  last  saw  him  spoke  in  his  eye  and  mien, 
were  gone  forever.  The  irregular  brilliancy  of  his  conversa- 
tion, the  earnestness  of  his  air  and  gesture,  were  replaced  by 
a  calm  and  even  and  melancholy  composure.  His  forehead 
was  stamped  with  the  lines  of  thought ;  and  the  hair,  grown 
thinner  towards  the  temples,  no  longer  concealed  by  its  luxu- 
riance the  pale  expanse  of  his  brow.  The  air  of  delicate 
health  which  had  at  first  interested  her  in  his  appearance 
still  lingered,  and  gave  its  wonted  and  ineffable  charm  to  his 
low  voice,  and  the  gentle  expression  of  his  eyes.  By  degrees, 
the  conversation,  at  first  partial  and  scattered,  became  more 
general.     Constance  and  Godolphin  were  drawn  into  it. 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  Godolphin,  "to  compare  life  in  a 


200  GODOLPHIN. 

southern  climate  with  that  which  we  lead  in  colder  countries. 
There  is  an  indolence,  a  laissez  aller,  a  philosophical  insou- 
ciance, produced  by  living  under  these  warm  suns,  and  apart 
from  the  ambition  of  the  objects  of  our  own  nation,  which 
produce  at  last  a  state  of  mind  that  divides  us  forever  from 
our  countrymen.  It  is  like  living  amidst  perpetual  music, — 
a  different  kind  of  life,  a  soft,  lazy,  voluptuous  romance  of 
feeling,  that  indisposes  us  to  action, — almost  to  motion.  So 
far  from  a  sojourn  in  Italy  being  friendly  to  the  growth  of 
ambition,  it  nips  and  -almost  destroys  the  germ." 

"In  fact,  it  leaves  us  fit  for  nothing  but  love,"  said  Saville, 
—  "  an  occupation  that  levels  us  with  the  silliest  part  of  our 
species." 

"Fools  cannot  love,"  said  Lady  Charlotte. 

"  Pardon  me,  love  and  folly  are  synonymous  in  more  lan- 
guages than  the  French,"  answered  Saville. 

"In  truth,"  said  Godolphin,  "the  love  which  you  both 
allude  to  is  not  worth  disputing  about." 

"What  love  is?  "  asked  Saville. 

"First  love,"  cried  Lady  Charlotte;  "is  it  not,  Mr. 
Godolphin?" 

Godolphin  changed  colour,  and  his  eyes  met  those  of  Con- 
stance. She  too  sighed  and  looked  down;  Godolphin  re- 
mained silent. 

"Nay,  Mr.  Godolphin,  answer  me,"  said  Lady  Charlotte; 
"I  appeal  to  you!  " 

"First  love,  then,"  said  Godolphin,  endeavouring  to  speak 
composedly,  "has  this  advantage  over  others, —  it  is  usually 
disappointed,  and  regret  forever  keeps  it  alive." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  struck  Constance  to  the  heart.  Nor 
did  she  speak  again  —  save  with  visible  effort  —  during  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 


GODOLPHIN.  201 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Constance's  undiminished  love  foe  godolphin.  —  her  re- 
morse  AND   HER    HOPE.  THE   CAPITOL.  THE   DIFFERENT 

THOUGHTS    OF     GODOLPHIN     AND    CONSTANCE    AT    THE    VIEW. 
THE    TENDER    EXPRESSIONS    OF    CONSTANCE. 

All  that  Constance  heard  from  others  of  Godolphin 's  life 
since  they  parted  increased  her  long-nursed  interest  in  his 
fate.  His  desultory  habits,  his  long  absences  from  cities, 
which  were  understood  to  be  passed  in  utter  and  obscure  soli- 
tude (for  the  partner  of  the  solitude  and  its  exact  spot  were 
not  known),  she  coupled  with  the  quiet  melancholy  in  his  as- 
pect, with  his  half-reproachful  glances  towards  herself,  and 
with  the  emotions  which  he  had  given  vent  to  in  their  con- 
versation. And  of  this  objectless  and  unsatisfactory  life  she 
was  led  to  consider  herself  the  cause.  With  a  bitter  pang  she 
recalled  his  early  words,  when  he  said,  "  My  future  is  in  your 
hands ;  "  and  she  contrasted  his  vivid  energies,  his  cultivated 
mind,  his  high  talents,  with  the  life  which  had  rendered  them 
all  so  idle  to  others  and  unprofitable  to  himself.  Few,  very 
few,  know  how  powerfully  the  sentiment  that  another's  hap- 
piness is  at  her  control  speaks  to  a  woman's  heart.  Accus- 
tomed to  dependence  herself,  the  feeling  that  another  depends 
on  her  is  the  most  soothing  aliment  to  her  pride.  This  makes 
a  main  cause  of  her  love  to  her  children;  they  would  be  in- 
comparably less  dear  to  her  if  they  were  made  independent 
of  her  cares.  And  years,  which  had  brought  the  young  coun- 
tess acquainted  with  the  nothingness  of  the  world,  had  soft- 
ened and  deepened  the  sources  of  her  affections,  in  proportion 
as  they  had  checked  those  of  her  ambition.  She  could  not, 
she  did  not,  seek  to  disguise  from  herself  that  Godolphin  yet 
loved  her;  she  anticipated  the  hour  when  he  would  avow  that 
love,  and  v\'hen  she  might  be  permitted  to  atone  for  all  of  dis- 
appointment that  her  former  rejection  might  have  brought  to 


202  GODOLPHIN. 

him.  She  felt,  too,  that  it  would  be  a  noble  as  well  as  de- 
lightful task  to  awaken  an  intellect  so  brilliant  to  the  natural 
objects  of  its  display;  to  call  forth  into  active  life  his  teem- 
ing thought,  and  the  rich  eloquence  with  which  he  could  con- 
vey it.  Nor  in  this  hope  were  her  more  selfish  designs,  her 
political  schemings,  and  her  desire  of  sway  over  those  whom 
she  loved  to  humble  forgotten;  but  they  made,  however, —  to 
be  just, —  a  small  part  of  her  meditations.  Her  hopes  were 
chiefly  of  a  more  generous  order.  "I  refused  thee,"  she 
thought,  "  when  I  was  poor  and  dependent ;  now  that  I  have 
wealth  and  rank,  how  gladly  will  I  yield  them  to  thy 
bidding!" 

But  Godolphin,  as  if  unconscious  of  this  favourable  bias  of 
her  inclinations,  did  not  warm  from  his  reserve.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  first  abstraction  and  his  first  agitation  had  both  sub- 
sided into  a  distant  and  cool  self-possession.  They  met  often, 
but  he  avoided  all  nearer  or  less  general  communication.  She 
saw,  however,  that  his  eyes  were  constantly  in  search  of  her, 
and  that  a  slight  trembling  in  his  voice  when  he  addressed  her 
belied  the  calmness  of  his  manner.  Sometimes,  too,  a  word, 
or  a  touch  from  her,  would  awaken  the  ill-concealed  emo- 
tions,—  his  lips  seemed  about  to  own  the  triumph  of  her  and 
of  the  past;  but,  as  if  by  a  violent  effort,  they  were  again 
sealed ;  and  not  unof ten,  evidently  unwilling  to  trust  his  self- 
command,  he  would  abruptly  depart.  In  short,  Constance 
perceived  that  a  strange  embarrassment,  the  causes  of  which 
she  could  not  divine,  hung  about  him,  and  that  his  conduct 
was  regulated  by  some  secret  motive,  which  did  not  spring 
from  the  circumstances  that  had  occurred  between  them.  For 
it  was  evident  that  he  was  not  withheld  by  any  resentment 
towards  her  from  her  former  rejection;  even  his  looks,  his 
words,  had  betrayed  that  he  had  done  more  than  forgive. 
Lady  Charlotte  Deerham  had  heard  from  Saville  of  their 
former  attachment:  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world,  and 
thought  it  but  common  delicacy  to  give  them  all  occasion  to 
renew  it.  She  always,  therefore,  took  occasion  to  retire  from 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  Constance  whenever  Godolphin 
approached,  and,  as  if  by  accident,   to  leave  them  the  op- 


GODOLPHIN.  203 

portunity  to  be  sufficiently  alone.  This  was  a  danger 
that  Godolphin  had,  however,  hitherto  avoided.  One  day 
fate  counteracted  prudence,  and  a  conference  ensued  which 
perplexed  Constance  and  tried  severely  the  resolution  of 
Godolphin. 

They  went  together  to  the  Capitol,  from  whose  height 
is  beheld  perhaps  the  most  imposing  landscape  in  the 
world.  It  was  a  sight  pre-eminently  calculated  to  arouse 
and  inspire  the  ambitious  and  working  mind  of  the  young 
countess. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  she  to  Godolphin,  who  stood  beside 
her,  "  that  there  lives  any  one  who  could  behold  these  count- 
less monuments  of  eternal  glory,  and  not  sigh  to  recall  the 
triteness,  or  rather  burn  to  rise  from  the  level,  of  our  ordi- 
nary life?" 

"Nay,"  said  Godolphin,  "to  you  the  view  may  be  an  in- 
spiration, to  others  a  warning.  The  arch  and  the  ruin  you 
survey  speak  of  change  yet  more  eloquently  than  glory.  Look 
on  the  spot  where  once  was  the  temple  of  Komulus:  there 
stands  the  little  church  of  an  obscure  saint.  Just  below  you 
is  the  Tarpeian  Rock :  we  cannot  see  it ;  it  is  hidden  from  us 
by  a  crowd  of  miserable  houses.  Along  the  ancient  plain  of 
the  Campus  Martins  behold  the  numberless  spires  of  a  new 
religion,  and  the  palaces  of  a  modern  race !  Amidst  them  you 
see  the  triumphal  columns  of  Trajan  and  Marcus  Antoninus ; 
but  whose  are  the  figures  that  crown  their  summits?  Saint 
Peter's  and  Saint  Paul's !  And  this  awful  wilderness  of  men's 
labours,  this  scene  and  token  of  human  revolutions,  inspires 
you  with  a  love  of  glory;  to  me  it  proves  its  nothingness.  An 
irresistible,  a  crushing  sense  of  the  littleness  and  brief  life  of 
our  most  ardent  and  sagacious  achievements  seems  to  me  to 
float  like  a  voice  over  the  place !  " 

"And  are  you  still,  then,"  said  Constance,  with  a  half  sigh, 
"dead  to  all  but  the  enjoyment  of  the  present  moment? " 

"Xo,"  replied  Godolphin,  in  a  low  and  trembling  voice;  "I 
am  not  dead  to  the  regret  of  the  past !  " 

Constance  blushed  deeply;  but  Godolphin,  as  if  feeling  he 
had  committed  himself  too  far,  continued  in  a  hurried  tone. 


204  GODOLPHIX. 

"Let  us  turn  our  eyes,"  said  he,  "yonder  among  the  olive 
groves.     There  — 

"  '  Far  from  the  maddiug  crowd's  ignoble  strife  '  — 

were  the  summer  retreats  of  Rome's  brightest  and  most  en- 
during spirits.  There  was  the  retirement  of  Horace  and 
Maecenas;  there  Brutus  forgot  his  harsher  genius;  and  there 
the  inscrutable  and  profound  Augustus  indulged  in  those 
graceful  relaxations  —  those  sacrifices  to  wit,  and  poetry,  and 
wisdom  —  which  have  made  us  do  so  unwilling  and  reserved 
a  justice  to  the  crimes  of  his  earlier  and  the  hypocrisy  of  his 
later  years.  Here,  again,  is  a  reproach  to  your  ambition," 
added  Godolphin,  smiling;  "his  ambition  made  Augustus 
odious;  his  occasional  forgetfulness  of  ambition  alone  re- 
deems him." 

"And  what,  then?"  said  Constance,  "would  you  consider 
inactivity  the  happiest  life  for  one  sensible  of  talents  higher 
than  the  common  standard?  " 

"Nay,  let  those  talents  be  devoted  to  the  discovery  of 
pleasures,  not  the  search  after  labours;  the  higher  our  tal- 
ents, the  keener  our  perceptions;  the  keener  our  perceptions, 
the  more  intense  our  capacities  for  pleasure :  ^  —  let  pleasure, 
then,  be  our  object.  Let  us  find  out  what  is  best  fitted  to 
give  our  peculiar  tastes  gratification,  and,  having  found  out, 
steadily  pursue  it." 

"  Out  on  you !  it  is  a  selfish  and  ignoble  system, "  said  Con- 
stance. "  You  smile ;  well,  I  may  be  unphilosophical,  I  do  not 
deny  it.  But  give  me  one  hour  of  glory,  rather  than  a  life  of 
luxurious  indolence.  Oh,  would,"  added  Constance,  kindling 
as  she  spoke,  "that  you,  — you,  Mr.  Godolphin, —  with  an  in- 
tellect so  formed  for  high  accomplishment,  with  all  the  weapons 
and  energies  of  life  at  your  command, —  would  that  you  could 
awaken  to  a  more  worthy  estimate  —  pardon  me  —  of  the  uses 
of  exertion !  Surely,  surely,  you  must  be  sensible  of  the  calls 
that  your  country,  that  mankind,  have  at  this  epoch  of  the 
world,  upon  all, —  all,  especially,  possessing  your  advantages 
and  powers.     Can  we  pierce  one  inch  beyond  the  surface  of 

1  I  suppose  Godolphin  by  the  word  "  pleasure  "  rather  signifies  "  hap- 
piness." 


GODOLPHIN.  205 

society,  and  not  see  that  great  events  are  hastening  to  their 
birth?  Will  you  let  those  inferior  to  yourself  hurry  on  be- 
fore you,  and  sit  inactive  while  they  win  the  reward?  Will 
you  have  no  share  in  the  bright  drama  that  is  already  pre- 
pared behind  the  dark  curtain  of  fate,  and  which  will  have  a 
world  for  its  spectators?  Ah,  how  rejoiced,  how  elated  with 
myself  I  should  feel,  if  I  could  win  over  one  like  you  to  the 
great  cause  of  honourable  exertion!  " 

For  one  instant  Godolphin's  eye  sparkled,  and  his  pale 
cheek  burned;  but  the  transient  emotion  faded  away  as  he 
answered, — 

"Eight  years  ago,  when  she  who  spoke  to  me  was  Con- 
stance Vernon,  her  wish  might  have  moulded  me  according  to 
her  will,  Now,"  and  he  struggled  with  emotion,  and  turned 
away  his  face, —  "wo^^  it  is  too  late!  " 

Constance  was  smitten  to  the  heart.  She  laid  her  hand 
gently  on  his  arm,  and  said,  in  a  sweet  and  soothing  tone, 
"  No,  Percy,  not  too  late !  " 

At  that  instant,  and  before  Godolphin  could  reply,  they 
were  joined  by  Saville  and  Lady  Charlotte  Deerham. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

LUCILLA's    letter.  —  THE   EFFECT   IT   PRODUCES    ON 
GODOLPHIN". 

The  short  conversation  recorded  in  the  last  chapter  could 
not  but  show  to  Godolphin  the  dangerous  ground  on  which 
his  fidelity  to  Lucilla  rested.  Never  before  —  no,  not  in  the 
young  time  of  their  first  passion  —  had  Constance  seemed  to 
him  so  lovely  or  so  worthy  of  love.  Her  manners  now  were 
so  much  more  soft  and  unreserved  than  they  had  necessarily 
been  at  a  period  when  Constance  had  resolved  not  to  listen  to 
his  addresses  or  her  own  heart,  that  the  only  part  of  her 
character  that  had  ever  repulsed  his  pride  or  offended  his 


206  GODOLPHIN. 

tastes  seemed  vanished  forever.  A  more  subdued  and  gentle 
spirit  had  descended  on  her  surpassing  beauty,  and  the  change 
was  of  an  order  that  Percy  Godolphin  could  especially  appre- 
ciate. And  the  world,  for  which  he  owned  reluctantly  that 
she  yet  lived  too  much,  had,  nevertheless,  seemed  rather  to 
enlarge  and  animate  the  natural  nobleness  of  her  mind,  than 
to  fritter  it  down  to  the  standard  of  its  common  votaries. 
When  she  spoke  he  delighted  in,  even  while  he  dissented 
from,  the  high  and  bold  views  which  she  conceived.  He 
loved  her  indignation  of  all  that  was  mean  and  low,  her  pas- 
sion for  all  that  was  daring  and  exalted.  Never  was  he  cast 
down  from  the  height  of  the  imaginative  part  of  his  love  by 
hearing  from  her  lips  one  petty  passion  or  one  sordid  desire; 
much  about  her  was  erroneous,  but  all  was  lofty  and  generous, 
even  in  error.  And  the  years  that  had  divided  them  had  only 
taught  him  to  feel  more  deeply  how  rare  was  the  order  of  her 
character,  and  how  impossible  it  was  ever  to  behold  her  like. 
All  the  sentiments,  faculties,  emotions,  which,  in  his  affec- 
tion for  Lucilla  had  remained  dormant,  were  excited  into  full 
play  the  moment  he  was  in  the  presence  of  Constance.  She 
engrossed  no  petty  portion,  she  demanded  and  obtained  the 
whole  empire,  of  his  soul.  And  against  this  empire  he  had 
now  to  contend !  Torn  as  he  was  by  a  thousand  conflicting 
emotions,  a  letter  from  Lucilla  was  suddenly  put  into  his 
hands ;  its  contents  were  as  follows :  — 

LUCILLA'S  LETTER. 

"  Thy  last  letter,  my  love,  was  so  short  and  hurried,  that  it  has  not 
cost  me  my  usual  pains  to  learn  it  by  heart ;  nor  (shall  I  tell  the  truth  ? ) 
have  I  been  so  eager  as  I  once  was  to  commit  all  thy  words  to  my  mem- 
ory. Why,  I  know  not,  and  will  guess  not,  but  there  is  something  in 
thy  letters  since  we  parted  that  chills  me  ;  they  throw  back  my  heart 
upon  itself.  I  tear  open  the  seal  with  so  much  eagerness,  —  thou 
wouldst  smile  if  thou  couldst  see  me,  —  and  when  I  discover  how  few 
are  the  words  upon  which  I  am  to  live  for  many  days,  I  feel  sick  and 
disappointed,  and  lay  down  the  letter.  Then  I  chide  myself  and  say, 
*  At  least  these  few  words  will  be  kind ! '  —  and  I  spell  them  one  by  one, 
not  to  hurry  over  my  only  solace.     Alas  1  before  I  arrive  at  the  end,  I 


GODOLPHIX.  207 

am  blinded  by  my  tears  ;  my  lo%e  for  thee,  so  bounding  and  full  of  life, 
seems  frozen  and  arrested  at  every  line.  And  then  I  lie  down  for  very 
weariness,  and  wish  to  die.  O  God,  if  the  time  has  come  which  I  have 
alwaj's  dreaded,  —  if  thou  shouldst  no  longer  love  me  !  And  how  rea- 
sonable this  fear  is  !  For  what  am  I  to  thee  ?  How  often  dost  thou 
complain  that  I  can  understand  thee  not,  how  often  dost  thou  imply  that 
there  is  much  of  thy  nature  which  I  am  incapable  —  unworthy  —  to 
learn!  If  this  be  so,  how  natural  is  it  to  dread  that  thou  wilt  find 
others  whom  thou  wilt  fancy  more  congenial  to  thee,  and  that  absence 
will  only  remind  thee  more  of  my  imperfections ! 

"And  yet  I  think  that  I  have  read  thee  to  the  letter;  I  think  that  my 
love,  which  is  always  following  thee,  always  watching  thee,  alwavs  con- 
jecturing thy  wishes,  must  have  penetrated  into  every  secret  of  thy 
heart :  only  I  want  words  to  express  what  I  feel,  and  thou  layest  the 
blame  upon  the  want  of  feeling  !  I  know  how  untutored,  how  ignorant, 
I  must  seem  to  thee ;  and  sometimes  —  and  lately  very  often  —  I  re- 
proach myself  that  I  have  not  more  diligently  sought  to  make  myself  a 
worthier  companion  to  thee.  I  think  if  I  had  the  same  means  as  others, 
I  should  acquire  the  same  facility  of  expressing  my  thoughts ;  and  my 
thoughts  thou  couldst  never  blame,  for  I  know  that  they  are  full  of  a 
love  to  thee  which  —  no,  not  the  wisest  —  the  most  brilliant,  whom  thou 
mayest  see  could  equal  even  in  imagination.  But  I  have  sought  to  mend 
this  deficiency  since  we  parted ;  and  I  have  looked  into  all  the  books 
thou  hast  loved  to  read,  and  I  fancy  that  I  have  imbibed  now  the  same 
ideas  which  pleased  thee,  and  in  which  once  thou  imaginedst  I  could  not 
sympathize.  Yet  how  mistaken  thou  hast  been  !  I  see,  by  marks  thou 
hast  placed  on  the  page,  the  sentiments  that  more  especially  charm 
thee  ;  and  I  know  that  I  have  felt  them  much,  oh !  how  much  more 
deeply  and  vividly  than  they  are  there  expressed,  —  only  they  seem  to 
me  to  have  no  language  ;  methinks  that  I  have  learned  the  language 
now.  And  I  have  taught  myself  songs  that  thou  wilt  love  to  hear  when 
thou  returnest  home  to  me ;  and  I  have  practised  music,  and  I  think  — 
nay,  I  am  sure  —  that  time  will  not  pass  so  heavily  with  thee  as  when 
thou  wast  last  here. 

"  And  when  shall  I  see  thee  again  ?  —  forgive  me  if  I  press  thee  to 
return.  Thou  hast  stayed  away  longer  than  thou  hast  been  wont ;  but 
that  I  would  not  heed ;  it  is  not  the  number  of  days,  but  the  sensations 
with  which  I  have  counted  them,  that  make  me  pine  for  thy  beloved 
voice,  and  long  once  more  to  behold  thee.  Xever  before  did  I  so  feel 
thy  absence,  never  before  was  I  so  utterly  wretched.  A  secret  voice 
whispers  me  that  we  are  parted  forever.  I  cannot  withstand  the  omens 
of  my  own  heart.     When  my  poor  father  lived,  I  did  not,  child  as  I  was, 


208  GODOLPHIN. 

partake  of  those  sentiments  witli  whic-h  he  was  wont  to  say  the  stars 
inspired  us.  I  could  not  see  in  them  the  boders  of  fear  and  the  preach- 
ers of  sad  tidings ;  they  seemed  to  me  only  full  of  serenity  and  tenderness 
and  the  promise  of  enduring  love  I  And  ever  when  I  looked  on  them,  I 
thought  of  thee  ;  and  thy  image  to  me  then,  as  thou  knowest  it  was  from 
childhood,  was  bright  with  unimaginable  but  never  melancholy  spells. 
But  now,  although  I  love  thee  so  far  more  powerfully,  I  cannot  divest 
the  thoughts  of  thee  from  a  certain  sadness ;  and  so  the  stars,  which  are 
like  thee,  which  are  full  of  thee,  have  a  sadness  also  !  And  this,  the 
bed,  where  every  morning  I  stretch  my  arms  for  thee,  and  find  thee  not, 
and  have  yet  to  live  through  the  day,  and  on  which  I  now  write  this  let- 
ter to  thee  —  for  I,  who  used  to  rise  with  the  sun,  am  now  too  dispirited 
not  to  endeavour  to  cheat  the  weary  day  —  I  have  made  them  place 
nearer  to  the  window  ;  and  I  look  out  upon  the  still  skies  every  night, 
and  have  made  a  friend  of  every  star  I  see.  I  question  it  of  thyself,  and 
wonder,  when  thou  lookest  at  it,  if  thou  hast  any  thought  of  me.  I  love 
to  look  upon  the  heavens  much  more  than  upon  the  earth ;  for  the  trees 
and  the  waters  and  the  hills  around,  thou  canst  not  behold,  but  the  same 
heaven  which  I  survey  is  above  thee  also ;  and  this,  our  common  com- 
panion, seems  in  some  measure  to  unite  us.  And  I  have  thought  over 
my  father's  lore,  and  have  tried  to  learn  it;  nay,  thou  mayest  smile,  but 
it  is  thy  absence  that  has  taught  me  superstition. 

"But  tell  me,  dearest,  kindest,  tell  me  when — oh,  when  wilt  thou 
return  ?  Return  only  this  once  —  if  but  for  a  day  —  and  I  will  never 
persecute  thee  again.  Truant  as  thou  art,  thou  shalt  have  full  liberty 
for  life.  But  I  cannot  tell  thee  how  sad  and  heavy  I  am  grown,  and 
every  hour  knocks  at  my  heart  like  a  knell !  Come  back  to  thy  poor 
Lucilla  —  if  only  to  see  what  joy  is !  Come  —  I  know  thou  wilt !  But 
should  anything  I  do  not  foresee  detain  thee,  fix  at  least  the  day  —  nay, 
if  possible,  the  hour  —  when  we  shall  meet,  and  let  the  letter  which  con- 
veys such  happy  tidings  be  long  and  kind  and  full  of  thee,  as  thy  letters 
once  were.  I  know  I  weary  thee,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  weak  and 
dejected  and  cast  down,  and  have  only  heart  enough  to  pray  for  thy 
return."   , 

"You  have  conquered!  you  have  conquered,  Lucilla!  "  said 
Godolphin,  as  he  kissed  this  wild  and  reproachful  letter,  and 
thrust  it  into  his  bosom ;  "  and  I  —  I  will  be  wretched  rather 
than  you  shall  be  so !  " 

His  heart  rebuked  him  even  for  that  last  sentence.  This 
pure  and  devoted  attachment  —  was  it  indeed  an  unhappiness 
to  obtain,  and  a  sacrifice  to  return !     Stung  by  his  thoughts, 


GODOLPHIX.  209 

aud  impatient  of  rest,  he  hurried  into  the  air;  he  traversed 
the  city;  he  passed  St.  Sebastian's  Gate,  gained  the  Appia 
Via,  and  saw,  lone  and  sombre,  as  of  old,  the  house  of  the 
departed  Volktman.  He  had  half  unconsciously  sought  that 
direction,  in  order  to  strengthen  his  purpose,  and  sustain  his 
conscience  in  its  right  path.  He  now  hurried  onwards,  and 
stopped  not  till  he  stood  in  that  lovely  and  haunted  spot  — 
the  valley  of  Egeria  —  in  which  he  had  met  Lucilla  on  the 
day  that  he  first  learned  her  love.  There  was  a  gloom  over 
the  scene  now,  for  the  day  was  dark  and  clouded :  the  birds 
were  silent;  a  heavy  oppression  seemed  to  brood  upon  the 
air.  He  entered  that  grotto  which  is  the  witness  of  the  most 
beautiful  love-story  chronicled  even  in  the  soft  South.  He 
recalled  the  passionate  and  burning  emotions  which,  the  last 
time  he  had  been  within  that  cell,  he  had  felt  for  Lucilla, 
and  had  construed  erroneously  into  real  love.  As  he  looked 
around,  how  different  an  aspect  the  spot  wore !  Then,  those 
walls,  that  spring,  even  that  mutilated  statue,  had  seemed  to 
him  the  encouragers  of  the  soft  sensations  he  had  indulged. 
Now,  they  appeared  to  reprove  the  very  weakness  which  hal- 
lowed themselves;  the  associations  spoke  to  him  in  another 
tone.  The  broken  statue  of  the  river  god,  the  desert  silence 
in  which  the  water  of  the  sweet  fountain  keeps  its  melancholy 
course,  the  profound  and  chilling  solitude  of  the  spot, —  all 
seemed  eloquent,  not  of  love,  but  the  broken  hope  and  the 
dreary  loneliness  that  succeed  it!  The  gentle  plant  (the 
capillaire)  that  overhangs  the  sides  of  the  grotto,  and  nour- 
ishes itself  on  the  dews  of  the  fountain,  seemed  an  emblem  of 
love  itself  after  disappointment, —  the  love  that  might  hence- 
forth be  Lucilla's, —  drooping  in  silence  on  the  spot  once  con- 
secrated to  rapture,  and  feeding  itself  with  tears.  There  was 
something  mocking  to  human  passion  in  the  very  antiquity  of 
the  spot;  four-and-twenty  centuries  had  passed  away  since 
the  origin  of  the  tale  that  made  it  holy  —  and  that  tale,  too, 
was  fable !  What,  in  this  vast  accumulation  of  the  sands  of 
time,  was  a  solitary  atom!  What,  among  the  millions,  the 
myriads,  that  around  that  desolate  spot  had  loved  and  forgot- 
ten love,  was  the  brief  passion  of  one  mortal,  withering  as  it 

14 


210  GODOLPHIN. 

sprung!     Thus  differently  moralizes  the  heart,  according  to 
the  passion  which  bestows  on  it  the  text. 

Before  he  regained  his  home,  Godolphin's  resolve"  was 
taken.  The  next  day  he  had  promised  Constance  to  attend 
her  to  Tivoli ;  he  resolved  then  to  take  leave  of  her,  and  on 
the  following  day  to  return  to  Lucilla.  He  remembered, 
with  bitter  reproach,  that  he  had  not  written  to  her  for  a 
length  of  time  treble  the  accustomed  interval  between  his 
letters ;  and  felt  that,  while  at  the  moment  she  had  written 
the  lines  he  had  now  pressed  to  his  bosom,  she  was  expecting, 
with  unutterable  fondness  and  anxiety,  to  receive  his  luke- 
warm assurances  of  continued  love,  the  letter  he  was  about  to 
write  in  answer  to  hers  was  the  first  one  that  would  greet  her 
eyes.  But  he  resolved  that  in  that  letter,  at  least,  she  should 
not  be  disappointed.  He  wrote  at  length,  and  with  all  the 
outpourings  of  a  tenderness  reawakened  by  remorse.  He  in- 
formed her  of  his  immediate  return,  and  even  forced  himself 
to  dwell  upon  it  with  kindly  hypocrisy  of  transport.  For  the 
first  time  for  several  weeks,  he  felt  satisfied  with  himself  as 
he  sealed  his  letter.  It  is  doubtful  whether  that  letter 
Lucilla  ever  received. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

TIVOLI.  THE   siren's    CAVE.  THE   CONFESSION. 

Along  the  deathly  Campagna,  a  weary  and  desolate  length 
of  way,  through  a  mean  and  squalid  row  of  houses,  you  thread 
your  course ;  and  behold  —  Tivoli  bursts  upon  you ! 

"  Look !  look !  "  cried  Constance,  with  enthusiasm,  as  she 
pointed  to  the  rushing  torrent  that,  through  matted  trees  and 
cragged  precipices,  thundered  on. 

Astonished  at  the  silence  of  Godolphin,  whom  scenery  was 
usually  so  wont  to  kindle  and  inspire,  she  turned  hastily 
round,  and  her  whole  tide  of  feeling  was  revulsed  by  the 
absorbed  but  intense  dejection  written  on  his  countenance. 


GODOLPHIN.  211 

"  Why, "  said  she,  after  a  short  pause,  and  affecting  a  play- 
ful smile,  "why,  how  provoking  is  this!  In  general,  not  a 
common  patch  of  green  with  an  old  tree  in  the  centre,  not  a 
common  rivulet  with  a  willow  hanging  over  it,  escapes  you. 
You  insist  upon  our  sharing  your  raptures,  you  dilate  on  the 
picturesque,  you  rise  into  eloquence;  nay,  you  persuade  us 
into  your  enthusiasm,  or  you  quarrel  with  us  for  our  coldness ; 
and  now,  with  this  divinest  of  earthly  scenes  around  us, — 
when  even  Lady  Charlotte  is  excited,  and  Mr.  Saville  forgets 
himself,  you  are  stricken  into  silence  and  apathy !  The  rea- 
son —  if  it  be  not  too  abstruse?  " 

"It  is  here!  "  said  Godolphin,  mournfully,  and  pressing  his 
hand  to  his  heart. 

Constance  turned  aside ;  she  indulged  herself  with  the  hope 
that  he  alluded  to  former  scenes,  and  despaired  of  the  future 
from  their  remembrance.  She  connected  his  melancholy  with 
herself,  and  knew  that,  when  referred  to  her,  she  could  dispel 
it.  Inspired  by  this  idea,  and  exhilarated  by  the  beauty  of 
the  morning,  and  the  wonderful  magnificence  of  nature,  she 
indulged  her  spirits  to  overflowing.  And  as  her  brilliant 
mind  lighted  up  every  subject  it  touched,  now  glowing  over 
description,  now  flashing  into  remark,  Godolphin  at  one  time 
forgot,  and  at  another  more  keenly  felt,  the  magnitude  of  the 
sacrifice  he  was  about  to  make.  But  every  one  knows  that 
feeling  which,  when  we  are  unhappy,  illumines  (if  I  may  so 
speak)  our  outward  seeming  from  the  fierceness  of  our  inward 
despair, —  that  recklessness  which  is  the  intoxication  of  our 
grief. 

By  degrees  Godolphin  broke  from  his  reserve.  He  seemed 
to  catch  the  enthusiasm  of  Constance;  he  echoed  back,  he  led 
into  new  and  more  dazzling  directions,  the  delighted  remarks 
of  his  beautiful  companion.  His  mind,  if  not  profoundly 
learned,  at  least  irregularly  rich,  in  the  treasures  of  old 
times,  called  up  a  spirit  from  every  object.  The  waterfall, 
the  ruin,  the  hollow  cave,  the  steep  bank  crested  with  the 
olive,  the  airy  temple,  the  dark  pomp  of  the  cypress  grove, 
and  the  roar  of  the  headlong  Anio, —  all  he  touched  with  the 
magic  of  the  past,  clad  with  the  glories  of  history  and  of 


212  GODOLPHIN. 

legend,  and  decked  ever  and  anon  with  the  flowers  of  the  eter- 
nal Poesy  that  yet  walks,  mourning  for  her  children,  amongst 
the  vines  and  waterfalls  of  the  ancient  Tibur.  And  €on- 
stance,  as  she  listened  to  him,  entranced,  until  she  herself  un- 
consciously grew  silent,  indulged  without  reserve  in  that,  the 
proudest  luxury  of  love,—  pride  in  the  beloved  object.  Never 
had  the  rare  and  various  genius  of  Godolphin  appeared  so 
worthy  of  admiration.  When  his  voice  ceased,  it  seemed  to 
Constance  like  a  sudden  blank  in  the  creation. 

Godolphin  and  the  young  countess  were  several  paces  before 
the  little  party,  and  they  now  took  their  way  towards  the 
Siren's  Cave.  The  path  that  leads  to  that  singular  spot  is 
humid  with  an  eternal  spray ;  and  it  is  so  abrupt  and  slip- 
pery, that  in  order  to  preserve  your  footing,  you  must  cling 
to  the  bushes  that  vegetate  around  the  sides  of  the  precipice. 

"  Let  us  dispense  with  our  guide, "  said  Godolphin.  "  I  know 
every  part  of  the  way,  and  I  am  sure  you  share  with  me  in 
dislike  to  these  hackneyed  indicators  and  sign-posts  for  ad- 
miration. Let  us  leave  him  to  Lady  Charlotte  and  Saville, 
and  suffer  me  to  be  your  guide  to  the  cavern."  Constance 
readily  enough  assented,  and  they  proceeded.  Saville,  by  no 
means  liking  the  difficult  and  perilous  path  which  was  to  lead 
only  to  a  very  cold  place,  soon  halted,  and  suggested  to  Lady 
Charlotte  the  propriety  of  doing  the  same.  Lady  Charlotte 
much  preferred  the  wit  of  her  companion's  conversation  to 
the  picturesque.  "Besides,"  as  she  said,  "she  had  seen  the 
cave  before."  Accordingly,  they  both  waited  for  the  return 
of  the  more  adventurous  countess  and  her  guide. 

Unconscious  of  the  defalcation  of  her  friends,  and  not  — 
from  the  attention  that  every  step  required  —  once  looking 
behind,  Constance  continued.  And  now,  how  delightful  to 
her  seemed  that  rugged  way,  as,  with  every  moment,  Godol- 
phin's  care,  Godolphin's  hand,  became  necessary;  and  he,  in- 
spired, inflamed  by  her  company,  by  her  touch,  by  the  softness 
of  her  manner,  and  the  devotion  of  her  attention  —  no,  no! 
not  yet  was  Lucilla  forgotten! 

And  now  they  stood  within  the  Siren's  Cave.  From  this 
spot  alone  you  can  view  that  terrible  descent  of  waters  which 


GODOLPHIN.  213 

rushes  to  earth  like  the  coming  of  a  god !  The  rocks  dripped 
around  them,  the  torrent  dashed  at  their  very  feet.  Down, 
down,  in  thunder,  forever  and  forever,  dashed  the  might  of 
the  maddening  element;  above,  all  wrath;  below,  all  black- 
ness; there,  the  cataract;  here,  the  abyss.  I^ot  a  moment's 
pause  to  the  fury,  not  a  moment's  silence  to  the  roar;  forward 
to  the  last  glimpse  of  the  sun, —  the  curse  of  labour,  and  the 
soul  of  unutterable  strength,  shall  be  upon  those  waters !  The 
demon,  tormented  to  an  eternity,  filling  his  dread  dwelling- 
place  with  the  unresting  and  unearthly  voice  of  his  rage  and 
despair,  is  the  only  type  meet  for  the  spirit  of  the  cataract. 

And  there  —  amidst  this  awful  and  tremendous  eternity  of 
strife  and  power  —  stood  two  beings  whose  momentary  exist- 
ence was  filled  with  the  master-passion  of  humanity.     And 
that  passion  was  yet  audible  there :  the  nature  without  could 
not  subdue  that  within.     Even  amidst   the   icy  showers  of 
spray  that  fell  around,  and  would  have  frozen  the  veins  of 
others,  Godolphin  felt  the  burning  at  his  heart.     Constance 
was  indeed  utterly  lost  in  a  whirl  and  chaos  of  awe  and  ad- 
miration, which  deprived  her  of  all  words.     But  it  was  the 
nature  of  her  wayward  lover  to  be  aroused  only  to  the  thor- 
ough knowledge  of  his  powers  and  passions  among  the  more 
unfrequent  and  fierce  excitements  of  life.     A  wild  emotion 
now  urged  him  on ;  something  of  that  turbulent  exaggeration 
of  mind  which   gave  rise  to  a  memorable  and  disputed  say- 
ing,—  "If  thou  stoodest  on  a  precipice  with  thy  mistress, 
hast  thou  ever  felt  the  desire  to  plunge  with  her  into  the 
abyss?     If  so,  thou  hast  loved! "     No  doubt  the  sentiment  is 
exaggerated,  but  there  are  times  when  love  is  exaggerated 
too.     And   now  Constance,  without    knowing   it,  had   clung 
closer  and  closer  to  Godolphin.     His  hand  at  first,  now  his 
arm,  supported  her;    and  at  length,  by  an  irresistible  and 
maddening  impulse,  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  and  whis- 
pered in  a  voice  which  was  heard  by  her  even  amidst  the 
thunder  of  the  giant  waters,  "  Here,  here,  my  early,  my  only 
love,  I  feel,  in  spite  of  myself,  that  I  never  utterly,  fully, 
adored  you  until  now !  " 


214  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

LUCLLLA.  THE    SOLITUDE.  —  THE   SPELL.  —  THE    DREAM   AND 

THE   RESOLVE. 

While  the  above  events,  so  fatal  to  Luc  ilia,  were  in  pro- 
gress at  Rome,  she  was  holding  an  unquiet  commune  with  her 
own  passionate  and  restless  heart,  by  the  borders  of  the  lake, 
whose  silver  quiet  mocked  the  mind  it  had,  in  happier  mo- 
ments, reflected.  She  had  now  dragged  on  the  weary  load  of 
time  throughout  the  winter;  and  the  early  and  soft  spring 
was  already  abroad,  smoothing  the  face  of  the  waters,  and 
calling  life  into  the  boughs.  Hitherto  this  time  of  the  year 
had  possessed  a  mysterious  and  earnest  attraction  for  Lucilla, 
—  now  all  its  voices  were  mute.  The  letters  that  Godolphin 
had  written  to  her  were  so  few  and  so  restrained,  in  compari- 
son with  those  which  she  had  received  in  the  former  periods  of 
absence,  that  —  ever  alive  as  she  was  to  impulse,  and  unregu- 
lated by  settled  principles  of  hope  —  her  only  relief  to  a 
tearful  and  spiritless  dejection  was  in  paroxysms  of  doubt, 
jealousy,  and  despair. 

It  is  the  most  common  thing  in  the  world,  that,  when  we 
have  once  wronged  a  person,  we  go  on  in  the  wrong,  from  a 
certain  soreness  with  which  conscience  links  the  associations 
of  the  injured  party.  And  thus,  Godolphin,  struggling  with 
the  return  to  his  early  and  never-forgotten  love,  felt  an  un- 
willingness that  he  could  seldom  successfully  combat  in  play- 
ing the  hypocrite  to  Lucilla.  His  very  remorse  made  him 
unkind;  the  feeling  that  he  ought  to  write  often,  made  him 
write  seldom :  and  conscious  that  he  ought  to  return  her  ex- 
pressions of  eager  devotion,  he  returned  them  with  involuntary 
awkwardness  and  reserve.  All  this  is  very  natural,  and  very 
evident  to  us ;  but  a  thousand  mysteries  were  more  acceptable 
to,  more  sought  for  and  more  clung  to,  by  Lucilla  than  a  con- 
jecture at  the  truth. 


GODOLPHIN.  215 

Meanwhile  she  fed  more  and  more  eagerly  on  those  vain  re- 
searches which  yet  beguiled  her  time,  and  flattered  her  imagi- 
nation. In  a  science  so  false  and  so  unprofitable,  it  mattered, 
happily,  little  whether  or  not  the  poor  disciple  laboured  with 
success;  but  I  need  scarcely  tell  to  any  who  have  had  the  curi- 
osity to  look  over  the  entangled  schemes  and  quaint  figures  of 
the  art,  how  slender  was  the  advancement  of  the  daughter  in 
the  learning  of  the  sire.  Still  it  was  a  comfort  and  a  soothing 
even  to  look  upon  the  placid  heaven,  and  form  a  conjecture  as 
to  the  language  of  its  stars.  And,  above  all,  while  she  ques- 
tioned the  future,  she  thought  only  of  her  lover.  But  day 
after  day  passed, —  no  letter,  or  worse  than  none;  and  at 
length  Lucilla  became  utterly  impatient  of  all  rest :  a  nervous 
fever  possessed  her;  the  extreme  solitude  of  the  place  filled 
her  with  that  ineffable  sensation  of  irritability  which  some- 
times preludes  the  madness  that  has  been  produced  in  crimi- 
nals by  solitary  confinement. 

On  the  day  that  she  wrote  that  letter  to  Godolphin  which  I 
have  transcribed,  this  painful  tension  of  the  nerves  was  more 
than  hitherto  acute.  She  longed  to  fly  somewhere;  nay,  once 
or  twice,  she  remembered  that  Rome  was  easily  gained,  that 
she  might  be  there  as  expeditiously  as  her  letter.  Although 
in  that  letter  only  we  have  signified  that  Lucilla  had  expressed 
her  wish  for  Godolphin's  return,  yet  in  all  her  later  letters  she 
had  (perhaps  more  timidly)  urged  that  desire.  But  they  had 
not  taken  the  same  hold  on  Godolphin;  nor,  while  he  was 
playing  with  his  danger,  had  they  produced  the  same  ener- 
getic resolution.  Lucilla  could  not,  however,  hope  with  much 
reason  that  the  success  of  her  present  letter  would  be  greater 
than  that  of  her  former  ones;  and,  at  all  events,  she  did  not 
anticipate  an  immediate  compliance  with  her  prayers.  She 
looked  forward  to  some  excuses,  and  to  some  delay.  We  can- 
not, therefore,  wonder  that  she  felt  a  growing  desire  to  follow 
her  own  epistle  to  Rome;  and  although  she  had  been  pre- 
vented before,  and  still  drew  back  from  absolutely  favouring 
and  enforcing  the  idea,  by  the  fear  of  Godolphin's  displeas- 
ure, yet  she  trusted  enough  to  his  gentleness  of  character  to 
feel  sure  that  the  displeasure  could  scarcely  be  lasting.     Still 


216  GODOLPHIN. 

the  step  was  "bold,  and  Lucilla  loved  devotedly  enough  to  be 
timid;  and  besides,  her  inexperience  made  her  look  upon  the 
journey  as  a  far  more  formidable  expedition  than  it  really  was. 

Debating  the  notion  in  her  mind,  she  sought  her  usual  re- 
treat, and  turned  listlessly  over  the  books  which  she  had  so 
lately  loved  to  study.  At  length,  in  moving  one  she  had  not 
looked  into  before,  a  paper  fell  to  the  ground;  she  picked  it 
up ;  it  was  the  paper  containing  that  figure,  which  it  will  be 
remembered,  the  astrologer  had  shown  to  his  daughter,  as  a 
charm  to  produce  dreams  prophetic  of  any  circumstance  or 
person  concerning  whom  the  believer  might  be  anxious  to 
learn  aught.  As  she  saw  the  image,  which,  the  reader  will 
recollect,  was  of  a  remarkable  design,  the  whole  of  her  con- 
versation with  Volktman  on  the  subject  rushed  into  her  mind, 
and  she  resolved  that  very  night  to  prove  the  efficacy  of  the 
charm  on  which  he  had  so  confidently  insisted,  draught  with 
the  chimerical  delusion,  she  now  longed  for  the  hours  to  pass, 
and  the  night  to  come.  She  looked  again  and  again  at  the 
singular  image  and  the  portentous  figures  wrought  upon  the 
charm;  the  very  strangeness  of  the  characters  inspired  her, 
as  was  natural,  with  a  belief  in  their  efficacy;  and  she  felt  a 
thrill,  an  awe,  creep  over  her  blood,  as  the  shadows  of  eve, 
deepening  over  the  far  mountains,  brought  on  the  time  of 
trial.  At  length  it  was  night,  and  Lucilla  sought  her 
chamber. 

The  hour  was  exceedingly  serene,  and  the  stars  shone 
through  the  casement  with  a  lustre  that  to  her  seemed  omi- 
nous. With  bare  feet,  and  only  in  her  night-robe,  she  stole 
tremblingly  across  the  threshold.  She  paused  for  a  moment 
at  the  window,  and  looked  out  on  the  deep  and  quiet  night ; 
and  as .  she  so  stood,  it  was  a  picture  that,  had  I  been  a 
painter,  I  would  have  devoted  a  youth  to  accomplish.  Half 
in  light,  half  in  shadow,  her  undress  gave  the  outline,  and 
somewhat  more,  of  a  throat  and  breast  whose  roundness, 
shape,  and  hue  never  were  surpassed.  Her  arms  were  lightly 
crossed  above  her  bosom;  and  her  long  rich  hair  seeming 
darker  by  that  light,  fell  profusely,  yet  not  dishevelled, 
around  her  neck,  parting  from  her  brow.     Her  attitude  at 


GODOLPIIIN.  217 

that  moment  was  quite  still,  as  if  in  worship, —  and  perhaps 
it  was;  her  face  was  inclined  slightly  upward,  looking  to  the 
heavens  and  towards  Rome.  But  that  face  —  there  was  the 
picture!  It  was  so  young,  so  infantine,  so  modest;  and  yet 
the  youth  and  the  timidity  were  elevated  and  refined  by  the 
earnest  doubt,  the  preternatural  terror,  the  unearthly  hope, 
which  dwelt  upon  her  forehead,  her  parted  lip,  and  her  wist- 
ful and  kindled  eye.  There  was  a  sublimity  in  her  loneliness 
and  her  years,  and  in  the  fond  and  vain  superstition,  which 
was  but  a  spirit  called  from  the  deeps  of  an  unfathomable  and 
mighty  love.  And  afar  was  heard  the  breaking  of  the  lake 
upon  the  shore  —  no  other  sound !  And  now,  among  the  un- 
waving  pines,  there  was  a  silver  shimmer  as  the  moon  rose 
into  her  empire,  and  deepened  at  once,  along  the  universal 
scene,  the  loveliness  and  the  awe. 

Lucilla  turned  from  the  window,  and  kneeling  down  wrote 
with  a  trembling  hand  upon  the  figure  one  word, —  the  name 
of  Godolphin.  She  then  placed  it  under  her  pillow,  and  the 
spell  was  concluded.  The  astrologer  had  told  her  of  the  ne- 
cessary co-operation  which  the  mind  must  afford  to  the  charm ; 
but  it  will  easily  be  believed  that  Lucilla  required  no  injunc- 
tion to  let  her  imagination  dwell  upon  the  vision  she  expected 
to  invoke.  And  it  would  have  been  almost  strange,  if,  so  in- 
tently and  earnestly  brooding  as  she  had  done  over  the  image 
of  Godolphin,  that  image  had  not,  without  recurring  to  any 
cabalistical  spells,  been  present  to  her  dreams. 

She  thought  that  it  was  broad  noonday,  and  that  she  was 
sitting  alone  in  the  house  she  then  inhabited,  and  weeping 
bitterly.  Of  a  sudden  the  voice  of  Godolphin  called  to  her; 
she  ran  eagerly  forth,  but  no  sooner  had  she  passed  the  thresh- 
old than  the  scene  so  familiar  to  her  vanished,  and  she  was 
alone  in  an  immense  and  pathless  wilderness ;  there  was  no 
tree  and  no  water  in  this  desert;  all  was  arid,  solitary,  and 
inanimate.  But  what  seemed  most  strange  to  her  was,  that 
in  the  heavens,  although  they  were  clear  and  bright,  there 
was  neither  sun  nor  stars;  the  light  seemed  settled  and  stag- 
nant, —  there  was  in  it  no  life. 

And  she  thought  that  she  continued  to  move  involuntarily 


218  GODOLPIIIN. 

along  the  waste;  and  that,  ever  and  anon,  she  yearned  and 
strove  to  rest,  but  her  limbs  did  not  obey  her  will,  and  a 
power  she  could  not  control  urged  her  onward. 

And  now  there  was  no  longer  an  utter  dumbness  and  death 
over  the  scene.  Forth  from  the  sands,  as  from  the  bowels 
of  the  reluctant  earth,  there  crept,  one  by  one,  loathly  and 
reptile  shapes;  obscene  soimds  rang  in  her  ears, —  now  in  a 
hideous  mockery,  now  in  a  yet  more  sickening  solicitation. 
Shapes  of  terror  thickened  and  crowded  round  her.  She  was 
roused  by  dread  into  action;  she  hurried  faster  and  faster; 
she  strove  to  escape;  and  ever  as  she  fled,  the  sounds  grew 
louder,  and  the  persecuting  shapes  more  ghastly, —  abomina- 
tions which  her  pure  mind  shuddered  to  behold  presented 
themselves  at  every  turn:  there  was  no  spot  for  refuge,  no 
cave  for  concealment.  Wearied  and  despairing,  she  stopped 
short;  but  then  the  shapes  and  sounds  seemed  gradually  to 
lose  their  terror;  her  eye  and  ear  became  familiar  to  them; 
and  what  at  first  seemed  foes  grew  into  companions. 

And  now,  again,  the  wilderness  was  gone;  she  stood  in  a 
strange  spot,  and  opposite,  and  gazing  upon  her  with  intent 
and  mournful  eyes,  stood  Godolphin.  But  he  seemed  much 
older  than  he  was,  and  the  traces  of  care  were  ploughed  deeply 
on  his  countenance;  and  above  them  both  hung  a  motionless 
and  livid  cloud;  and  from  the  cloud  a  gigantic  hand  was 
stretched  forth,  pointing  with  a  shadowy  and  unmoving  figure 
towards  a  quarter  of  the  earth  which  was  enveloped  in  a  thick 
gloom.  While  she  sought  with  straining  eyes  to  penetrate 
the  darkness  of  the  spot  thus  fearfully  marked  out,  she  thought 
Godolphin  vanished,  and  all  was  suddenly  and  utter  night, — 
night,  but  not  stillness ;  for  there  was  a  roar  as  of  many  winds, 
and  a  dashing  of  angry  waters,  that  seemed  close  beneath; 
and  she  heard  the  trees  groan  and  bend,  and  felt  the  icy  and 
rushing  air:  the  tempests  were  abroad.  But  amidst  the  min- 
gling of  the  mighty  sounds,  she  heard  distinctly  the  ringing 
of  a  horse's  hoofs;  and  presently  a  wild  cry,  in  which  she 
recognized  the  voice  of  Godolphin,  rang  forth,  adding  to  the 
wrath  of  nature  the  yet  more  appalling  witness  of  a  human 
despair.     The  cry  was  followed  by  the  louder  dashing  of  the 


GODOLPHIN. 


219 


waves,  and  the  fiercer  turmoil  of  the  winds ;  and  then  her  an- 
guish and  horror  freeing  her  from  the  Prison  of  Sleep,  she  woke. 
It  was  nearly  day,  but  the  serenity  of  the  late  night  had 
gone;  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  the  house  shook  beneath 
the  fury  of  a  violent  storm.  This  change  in  the  mood  of 
nature  had  probably  influenced  the  latter  part  of  her  dream. 
But  Lucilla  thought  of  no  natural  solution  to  the  dreadful 
vision  she  had  undergone.  Her  superstition  was  confirmed 
and  ratified  by  the  intense  impression  wrought  upon  her  mind 
by  the  dream.  A  thousand  unutterable  fears  —  fears  for 
(jrodolphin,  rather  than  herself,— or  if  for  herself,  only  in 
connection  with  him  —  bore  irresistible  despotism  over  her 
thoughts.  She  could  not  endure  to  wait,  to  linger  any  longer 
in  the  dark  and  agitated  suspense  she  herself  had  created; 
the  idea  she  before  had  nursed  now  became  resolve;  she  de- 
termined forthwith  to  set  out  for  Rome,— to  see  Godolphin. 
She  rose,  woke  her  attendant,  and  that  very  day  she  put  her 
resolution  into  effect. 


CHAPTER  XLn. 

JOY   AND    DESPAIR. 

It  was  approaching  towards  the  evening  as  Lucilla  paused 
for  a  few  seconds  at  the  door  which  led  to  Godolphin's  apart- 
ments. At  length  she  summoned  courage.  The  servant  who 
admitted  her  was  Godolphin's  favourite  domestic;  and  he 
was  amazed,  but  overjoyed,  to  see  her;  for  Lucilla  was  the 
idol  of  all  who  knew  her, —  save  of  him,  whose  love  only  she 
cared  and  lived  for. 

His  master,  he  said,  was  gone  out  for  a  short  time,  but  the 
next  day  they  were  to  have  returned  home.  Lucilla  coloured 
with  vivid  delight  to  hear  that  her  letter  had  produced  an 
effect  she  had  not  hoped  so  expeditiously  to  accomplish.  She 
passed  on  into  Godolphin's  apartment.     The  room  bore  evi- 


220  GODOLPHIN. 

dent  signs  of  approaching  departure;  the  trunks  lay  half- 
packed  on  the  floor;  there  was  all  that  importance  of  confu- 
sion around  which  makes  to  the  amateur  traveller  a  luxury 
out  of  discomfort.  Lucilla  sat  down  and  waited,  anxious  and 
trembling,  for  her  lover.  Her  woman,  who  had  accompanied 
her,  thinking  of  more  terrestrial  concerns  than  love,  left  her, 
at  her  desire.  She  could  not  rest  long;  she  walked,  agitating 
and  expecting,  to  and  fro  the  long  and  half -furnished  chamber 
which  characterizes  the  Italian  palace.  At  length,  her  eye 
fell  on  an  open  letter  on  a  writing-table  at  one  corner  of  the 
room.  She  glanced  over  it  mechanically, —  certain  words 
suddenly  arrested  her  attention.  Were  those  words  —  words 
of  passion  —  addressed  to  her?  If  not,  0  Heaven!  to  whom? 
She  obeyed,  as  she  ever  did,  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and 
read  what  follows :  — 

"  Constance,  —  As  I  write  that  word  how  many  remembrances  rush 
upon  me !  for  how  many  years  has  that  name  been  a  talisman  to  my 
heart,  waking  its  emotions  at  will !  You  are  the  first  woman  I  ever 
really  loved ;  you  rejected  me,  yet  I  could  not  disdain  you.  You  became 
another's,  —  but  my  love  could  not  desert  you.  Your  hand  wrote  the 
history  of  my  life  after  the  period  when  we  met ;  my  habits,  my  thoughts, 
—  you  influenced  and  coloured  them  all !  And  now,  Constance,  you  are 
free  ;  and  I  love  you  more  fervently  than  ever  !  And  you  —  yes,  you 
would  not  reject  me  now ;  you  have  grown  wiser,  and  learned  the  value 
of  a  heart.  And  yet  the  same  Fate  that  divided  us  hitherto  will  divide 
us  now  ;  all  obstacles  but  one  are  passed  away,  —  of  that  one  you  shall 
hear  and  judge. 

"  When  we  parted,  Constance,  years  ago,  I  did  not  submit  tamely  to 
the  burning  remembrance  you  bequeathed  me  ;  I  sought  to  dissipate 
your  image,  and  by  wooing  others  to  forget  yourself.  Need  I  say  that 
to  know  another  was  only  to  remember  you  the  more  ?  But  among  the 
other  and  far  less  worthy  objects  of  my  pursuit  was  one  whom,  had  I  not 
seen  you  first,  I  might  have  loved  as  ardently  as  I  do  you  ;  and  in  the 
first  flush  of  emotion,  and  the  heat  of  sudden  events,  I  imagined  that  I 
did  so  love  her.  She  was  an  orphan,  a  child  in  years  and  in  the  world  ; 
and  I  was  all  to  her,  —  I  am  all  to  her.  She  is  not  mine  by  the  ties  of 
the  Church ;  but  I  have  pledged  a  faith  to  her  equally  sacred  and  as 
strong.  Shall  I  break  that  faith ;  shall  I  betray  that  trust ;  shall  I  crush 
a  heart  that  has  always  been  mine,  — mine  more  tenderly  than  yours, 
rich  in  a  thousand  gifts  and  resources,  ever  was  or  ever  can  be  ?     Shall 


GODOLPHIX.  221 

r,  sworn  to  protect  her,  —  I,  who  have  already  robbed  her  of  fame  and 
friends,  rob  her  now  of  father,  brother,  lover,  husband,  the  world  itself, 
—  for  I  am  all  to  her  ?  Xever  !  never  !  I  shall  be  wretched  through- 
out life:  I  shall  know  that  you  are  free — that  you  —  oh,  Constance! 
you  might  be  mine  !  —  but  she  shall  never  dream  what  she  has  cost  me  ! 
I  have  been  too  cold,  too  ungrateful  to  her  already,  —  I  will  make  her 
amends.  My  heart  may  break  in  the  effort,  but  it  shall  reward  her. 
You,  Constance,  in  the  pride  of  your  lofty  station,  your  strengthened 
mind,  your  regulated  virtue  (fenced  in  by  the  hundred  barriers  of  cus- 
tom), you  cannot,  perhaps,  conceive  how  pure  and  devoted  the  soul  of 
this  poor  girl  is  !  She  is  not  one  whom  I  could  heap  riches  upon  and 
leave ;  my  love  is  all  the  riches  she  knows.  Earth  has  not  a  consolation 
or  a  recompense  for  the  loss  of  my  affection;  and  even  heaven  itself 
she  has  never  learned  to  think  of,  except  as  a  place  in  which  we  shall  be 
united  forever.  As  I  write  this  I  know  that  she  is  sitting  afar  off  and 
alone,  and  thinking  only  of  one  whose  whole  soul,  fated  and  accursed  as 
he  is,  is  maddened  by  the  love  of  another.  My  letters,  her  only  com- 
fort, have  been  cold  and  few  of  late  ;  I  know  how  they  have  wrung  her 
heart.  I  picture  to  myself  her  solitude,  her  sadness,  her  unfriended 
youth,  her  ardent  mind,  which,  not  enriched  by  culture,  clings,  feeds, 
lives  only  on  one  idea.  Before  you  receive  this,  I  shall  be  on  the  road 
to  her.  Xever  again  will  I  risk  the  temptation  I  have  undergone.  I 
am  not  a  vain  man ;  I  do  not  deceive  myself ;  I  do  not  imagine,  I  do  not 
insult  you  by  believing,  that  you  will  long  or  bitterly  feel  my  loss. 
I  have  loved  you  far  better  than  you  have  loved  me,  and  you  have  un- 
counted channels  for  your  bright  hopes  and  your  various  ambition. 
You  love  the  world,  and  the  world  is  at  your  feet !  And  in  remember- 
ing me  now,  you  may  think  you  have  cause  for  indignation.  Why,  with 
the  knowledge  of  a  tie  that  forbade  me  to  hope  for  you,  why  did  I  linger 
round  you ;  why  did  I  give  vent  to  any  word,  or  license  to  any  look, 
that  told  you  I  loved  you  still  ?  Why,  above  all,  on  that  fated  yester- 
day, when  we  stood  alone  surrounded  by  the  waters,  —  why  did  I 
dare  forget  myself ;  why  clasp  you  to  my  breast ;  why  utter  the  assu- 
rance of  that  love  which  was  a  mockery,  if  I  were  not  about  solemnly 
to  record  it  ? 

"  This  you  will  ask ;  and  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  the  answer,  your 
pride  will  clothe  my  memory  with  resentment.  Be  it  so,  yet  hear  me. 
Constance,  when,  in  my  first  youth,  at  the  time  when  the  wax  was  yet 
soft,  and  the  tree  might  yet  be  bent ;  when  I  laid  my  heart  and  my 
future  lot  at  yonr  feet ;  when  you,  at  the  dictates  of  a  worldly  and  cold 
ambition  (disguise  the  name  as  you  will,  the  reality  is  the  same),  threw 
me  back  on  the  solitary  desert  of  Ufe ;  when  you  rejected,  forsook  me, 


222  GODOLPHIN. 

—  do  you  think  that,  although  I  loved  you  still,  there  was  no  anger  min- 
gled with  the  love  ?  We  met  again :  but  what  years  of  wasted  existence, 
of  dimmed  hope,  of  deadened  emotion,  had  passed  over  me  since  then  ! 
And  who  had  thus  marked  them? — You!  Do  you  wonder,  then,  that 
something  of  human  pride  asked  for  human  vengeance  ?  Yes  1  I  pined 
for  some  triumph  in  my  turn  ;  I  longed  to  try  whether  I  was  yet  for- 
gotten, —  whether  the  heart  which  stung  me  had  been  stung  also  in 
the  wound  that  it  inflicted.  Was  not  this  natural  ?  Ask  yourself,  and 
blame  me  if  you  can.  But  by  degrees,  as  I  gazed  upon  a  beauty,  and 
listened  to  a  voice,  softer  in  their  character  than  of  old,  as  I  felt  that 
you  would  not  deny  me  retribution,  this  selfish  desire  for  revenge  died 
away,  and,  by  degrees,  all  emotions  were  merged  in  one,  —  uncon- 
quered,  unconquerable  love.  And  can  you  blame  me,  if  then  —  traitor 
to  myself  as  to  you  —  I  lingered  on  the  spot ;  if  I  had  many  struggles 
to  endure  before  I  could  resolve  on  the  sacrifice  I  now  make  ?  Alas  ! 
it  has  cost  me  much  to  be  just.  Can  you  blame  me  if  at  all  times  I 
could  not  control  my  words  and  looks  ?  Nay,  even  in  our  last  meeting, 
when  I  was  maddened  by  the  thought  that  we  were  about  to  part  for- 
ever ;  when  we  stood  alone ;  when  no  eye  was  near  ;  when  you  clung 
to  me  in  a  delicious  timidity  ;  when  your  breath  was  on  my  cheek; 
when  the  heaving  of  your  heart  was  heard  by  mine  ;  when  my  hand 
touched  that  which  could  give  me  all  the  world  in  itself ;  when  my  arm 
encircled  that  glorious  and  divine  shape  —  O  Heaven !  can  you  blame 
me,  can  you  wonder  if  I  was  transported  beyond  myself  ;  if  conscience, 
reason,  all  were  forgotten,  and  I  thought  —  felt  —  lived  —  but  for  the 
moment  and  for  you?  No,  you  will  feel  for  the  weakness  of  nature ; 
you  will  not  judge  me  harshly. 

"And  why  should  you  rob  me  of  the  remembrance  of  that  brief 
moment,  that  wild  embrace?  How  often  shall  I  recall  it !  How  often 
when  the  light  step  of  her  to  whom  I  return  glides  around  me,  shall  I 
cheat  myself,  and  think  it  yours ;  when  I  feel  her  breath  at  night,  shall 
I  not  start  and  dream  it  comes  from  your  lips  ?  And  in  returning  her 
unconscious  caress,  let  me  fancy  it  is  you  whispers  me  the  assurances  of 
unutterable  love  !  Forgive  me,  Constance,  my  yet  adored  Constance, 
whom  I  shall  never  see  more,  for  these  wild  words,  this  momentary 
weakness.  Farewell!  Whatever  becomes  of  me,  may  God  give  you 
all  His  blessings ! 

"  One  word  more  —  no,  I  will  not" close  this  letter  yet !  You  remem- 
ber that  you  once  gave  me  a  flower  —  years  ago.  I  have  preserved  its 
leaves  to  this  day  ;  but  I  will  give  no  indulgence  to  a  folly  that  will  now 
wrong  you,  and  be  unworthy  of  myself.  I  will  send  you  back  those 
leaves  ;  let  them  plead  for  me,  as  the  memories  of  former  days.      I  must 


GODOLPHIN.  223 

break  off  now,  for  I  can  literally  write  no  more.  I  must  go  forth  and 
recover  my  self-command.  And  oh  I  may  she  whom  I  seek  to-morrow, 
whose  unsuspecting  heart  admonished  by  temptation  I  will  watch  over, 
guide,  and  shield,  far,  far  more  zealously  than  I  have  yet  done,  never 
know  what  it  has  cost  me  not  to  abandon  and  betray  her  1 " 

And  Lucilla  read  over  every  word  of  this  letter!  How 
wholly  impossible  it  is  for  language  to  express  the  agony,  the 
hopeless,  irremediable  despair  that  deepened  within  her  as 
she  proceeded  to  the  end !  Everything  that  life  had,  or  could 
ever  have  had  for  her,  of  common  peace  or  joy,  was  blasted 
forever!  As  she  came  to  the  last  word,  she  bowed  her  head 
in  silence  over  the  writing,  and  felt  as  if  some  mighty  rock 
had  fallen  upon  her  heart  and  crushed  it  to  dust.  Had  the 
letter  breathed  but  one  unkind,  one  slighting  expression  of 
her,  it  would  have  been  some  comfort,  some  rallying  point, 
however  forlorn  and  wretched ;  but  this  cruel  tenderness,  this 
bitter  generosity! 

And  before  she  had  read  that  letter,  how  joyously,  how 
breathlessly  she  had  anticipated  rushing  to  her  lover's  breast! 
It  seems  incredible  that  the  space  of  a  few  minutes  should 
suffice  to  blight  a  whole  existence, —  blacken,  without  a  ray  of 
hope,  an  entire  future ! 

She  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  steps,  though  in  another 
apartment;  she  would  not  now  have  met  Godolphin  for 
worlds ;  the  thought  of  his  return  alone  gave  her  the  power 
of  motion.  She  thrust  the  fatal  letter  into  her  bosom;  and 
then,  in  characters  surprisingly  distinct  and  clear,  she  wrote 
her  name,  and  placed  that  writing  in  the  stead  of  the  epistle 
she  took  away.  She  judged  rightly  that  that  single  name 
would  suffice  to  say  all  she  could  not  then  say.  Having  done 
this,  she  rose,  left  the  room,  and  stole  softly  and  unperceived 
into  the  open  street. 

Unconscious  and  careless  whither  she  went,  she  hurried 
on,  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  and  concealing  her  form  and 
face  with  her  long  mantle.  The  streets  at  Eome  are  not 
thronged  as  with  us;  nor  does  there  exist,  in  a  city  conse- 
crated by  so  many  sublime  objects,  that  restless  and  vulgar 
curiosity  which  torments  the  English  public.     Each  lives  in 


224  GODOLPHIN. 

himself,  not  in  liis  neighbour.  The  moral  air  of  Rome  is 
Indifference. 

Lucilla,  therefore,  hurried  along  unmolested  and  unob- 
served, until  at  length  her  feet  failed  her,  and  she  sank 
exhausted,  but  still  unconscious  of  her  movements  and  of  all 
around,  upon  one  of  the  scattered  fragments  of  ancient  pride 
that  at  every  turn  are  visible  in  the  streets  of  Eome.  The 
place  was  quiet  and  solitary,  and  darkened  by  the  shadows  of 
a  palace  that  reared  itself  close  beside.  She  sat  down;  and 
shrouding  her  face  as  it  drooped  over  her  breast,  endeavoured 
to  collect  her  thoughts.  Presently  the  sound  of  a  guitar  was 
heard ;  and  along  the  street  came  a  little  group  of  the  itinerant 
musicians  who  invest  modern  Italy  with  its  yet  living  air  of 
poetry:  the  reality  is  gone,  but  the  spirit  lingers.  They 
stopped  opposite  a  small  house;  and  Lucilla,  looking  up,  saw 
the  figure  of  a  young  girl  placing  a  light  at  the  window  as  a 
signal  well  known,  and  then  she  glided  away.  Meanwhile, 
the  lover  (Avho  had  accompanied  the  musicians,  and  seemed 
in  no  very  elevated  rank  of  life)  stood  bare-headed  beneath ; 
and  in  his  upward  look  there  was  a  devotion,  a  fondness,  a 
respect,  that  brought  back  to  Lucilla  all  the  unsparing  bitter- 
ness of  contrast  and  recollection.  And  now  the  serenade  be- 
gan. The  air  was  inexpressibly  soft  and  touching,  and  the 
words  were  steeped  in  that  vague  melancholy  which  is  insepa- 
rable from  the  tenderness,  if  not  from  the  passion,  of  love. 
Lucilla  listened  involuntarily,  and  the  charm  slowly  wrought 
its  effect.  The  hardness  and  confusion  of  her  mind  melted 
gradually  away,  and  as  the  song  ended  she  turned  aside  and 
burst  into  tears.  "Happy,  happy  girl!"  she  murmured; 
"  she  is  loved !  " 

Here  let  us  drop  the  curtain  upon  Lucilla.  Often,  0  Reader ! 
shalt  thou  recall  this  picture ;  often  shalt  thou  see  her  before 
thee,  alone  and  broken-hearted,  weeping  in  the  twilight  streets 
of  Rome! 


GODOLPHIX.  225 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

LOVE   STROKG    AS    DEATH,    AND    NOT    LESS    BITTER. 

When  Godolpliin  returned  home  the  door  was  open,  as 
Lucilla  had  left  it,  and  he  went  at  once  into  his  apartment. 
He  hastened  to  the  table  on  which  he  had  left,  with  the  neg- 
ligence arising  from  the  emotions  of  the  moment,  the  letter 
to  Constance;  the  paper  on  which  Lucilla  had  written  her 
name  alone  met  his  eye.  While  yet  stunned  and  amazed,  his 
servant  and  Lucilla's  entered:  in  a  few  moments  he  had 
learned  all  they  had  to  tell  him ;  the  rest  Lucilla's  handwrit- 
ing did  indeed  sufficiently  explain.  He  comprehended  all; 
and  in  a  paroxysm  of  alarm  and  remorse,  he  dispersed  his 
servants,  and  hurried  himself  in  search  of  her.  He  went  to 
the  house  of  her  relations ;  they  had  not  seen  or  heard  of  her. 
It  was  now  night,  and  every  obstacle  in  the  way  of  his  search 
presented  itself.  Not  a  clew  could  be  traced;  or,  sometimes 
following  a  description  that  seemed  to  him  characteristic, 
he  chased,  and  found  some  wanderer  —  how  unlike  Lucilla! 
Towards  daybreak  he  returned  home,  after  a  vain  and  weary 
search;  and  his  only  comfort  was  in  learning  from  her  at- 
tendant that  she  had  about  her  a  sum  of  money  which  he 
knew  would  in  Italy  always  purchase  safety  and  attention. 
Yet,  alone,  at  night,  in  the  streets, —  so  utter  a  stranger  as 
she  was  to  the  world,  so  young  and  so  lovely  —  he  shuddered, 
he  gasped  for  breath  at  the  idea.  Might  she  destroy  herself? 
That  hideous  question  forced  itself  upon  him ;  he  could  not 
exclude  it:  he  trembled  when  he  recalled  her  impassioned 
and  keen  temper,  and  when,  in  remembering  the  tone  and 
words  of  his  letter  to  "Constance,  he  felt  how  desperate  a 
pang  every  sentence  must  have  inflicted  upon  her.  And,  in- 
deed, even  his  imagination  could  not  equal  the  truth,  when  it 
attempted  to  sound  the  depths  of  her  wounded  feelings.     He 

15 


226  GODOLPHIN. 

only  returned  home  to  sally  out  again.  He  now  employed  tlie 
police,  and  those  most  active  and  vigilant  agents  that  at  Rome 
are  willing  to  undertake  all  enterprises;  he  could  not  but  feel 
assured  of  discovering  her. 

Still,  however,  noon,  evening  came  on,  and  no  tidings.  As 
he  once  more  returned  home,  in  the  faint  hope  that  some  in- 
telligence might  await  him  there,  his  servant  hurried  eagerly 
out  to  him  with  a  letter;  it  was  from  Lucilla,  and  it  was 
worthy  of  her:  I  give  it  to  the  reader. 

LUCILLA'S   LETTER. 

"  I  have  read  your  letter  to  another  !  Are  not  these  words  sufficient 
to  tell  you  all  ?  All  ?  no  !  you  never,  never,  never  can  tell  how  crushed 
and  broken  my  heart  is  !  Why  ?  Because  you  are  a  man,  and  because 
you  have  never  loved  as  I  loved.  Yes,  Godolphin,  1  knew  that  I  was 
not  one  whom  you  could  love.  I  am  a  poor,  ignorant,  untutored  girl, 
with  nothing  at  my  heart  but  a  great  world  of  love  which  I  could  never 
tell.  Thou  saidst  I  could  not  comprehend  thee :  alas  1  how  much  was 
there  —  is  there  —  in  my  nature,  in  my  feelings,  which  have  been,  and 
ever  will  be,  unfathomable  to  thy  sight ! 

"But  all  this  matters  not;  the  tie  between  us  is  eternally  broken. 
Go,  dear,  dear  Godolphin  !  link  thyself  to  that  happier  other  one,  seem- 
ingly so  much  more  thine  equal  than  the  lowly  and  uncultivated  Lucilla. 
Grieve  not  for  me ;  you  have  been  kind,  most  kind,  to  me.  You  have 
taken  away  hope,  but  you  have  given  me  pride  in  its  stead  ;  the  blow 
which  has  crushed  my  heart  has  given  strength  to  my  mind.  Were 
you  and  I  left  alone  on  the  earth,  we  must  still  be  apart ;  I  could  never, 
never  live  with  you  again ;  my  world  is  not  your  world ;  when  our 
hearts  have  ceased  to  be  in  common,  what  of  union  is  there  left  to  us  ? 
Yet  it  would  be  something  if,  since  the  future  is  shut  out  from  me,  you 
had  not  also  deprived  me  of  the  past  :  I  have  not  even  the  privilege  of 
looking  back  !  What !  all  the  while  my  heart  was  lavishing  itself  upon 
thee ;  all  the  while  I  had  no  other  thought,  no  other  dream  but  thee ; 
'all  the  while  I  sat  by  thy  side,  and  watched  thee,  hanging  on  thy  wish, 
striving  to  foresee  thy  thoughts,  —  all  the  while  I  was  the  partner  of 
thy  days,  and  at  night  my  bosom  was  thy  pillow,  and  I  could  not  sleep 
from  the  bliss  of  thinking  thee  so  near  me,  thy  heart  was  then  indeed 
away  from  me  ;  thy  thoughts  estranged  ;  I  was  to  thee  only  an  encum- 
brance, —  a  burthen,  from  which  thy  sigh  was  to  be  free  !  Can  I  ever 
look  back,  then,  to  those  hours  we  spent  together?     All  that  vast  his- 


GODOLPHIN.  227 

tory  of  the  past  is  but  one  record  of  bitterness  and  shame.  And  yet  I 
cannot  blame  thee  ;  it  were  something  if  I  could  :  in  proportion  as  you 
loved  me  not,  you  were  kind  and  generous  ;  and  God  will  bless  you  for 
that  kindness  to  the  poor  orphan.  A  harsh  word,  a  threatening  glance, 
I  never  had  the  affliction  to  feel  from  thee.  Tracing  the  blighted  past, 
I  am  only  left  to  sadden  at  that  gentleness  which  never  came  from 
love  I 

"  Go,  Godolphin  —  I  repeat  the  prayer  in  all  humbleness  and  sin- 
cerity —  go  to  her  whom  thou  lovest,  perhaps  as  I  loved  thee ;  go,  and 
in  your  happiness  I  shall  feel  at  last  something  of  happiness  myself. 
We  part  forever,  but  there  is  no  unkindness  between  us ;  there  is  no 
reproach  that  one  can  make  against  the  other.  If  I  have  sinned,  it  has 
been  against  Heaven  and  not  thee ;  and  thou  —  why,  even  against 
Heaven  jnine  was  all  the  fault,  the  rashness,  the  madness !  You  will 
return  to  your  native  land  ;  to  that  proud  England,  of  which  I  have  so 
often  questioned  you,  and  which,  even  in  your  answers,  seems  to  me  so 
cold  and  desolate  a  spot,  —  a  land  so  hostile  to  love.  There,  in  your 
new  ties,  you  will  learn  new  objects,  and  you  will  be  too  busy  and  too 
happy  for  your  thoughts  to  turn  to  me  again.  Too  happy  ?  —  Xo,  I 
wish  I  could  think  you  would  be;  but  I,  whom  you  deny  to  possess 
sympathies  with  you,  —  I  have  at  least  penetrated  so  far  into  your  heart 
as  to  fear  that,  come  what  may,  you  will  never  find  the  happiness  you 
ask.  You  exact  too  much,  you  dream  too  fondly,  not  to  be  discontented 
with  the  truth.  What  has  happened  to  me  must  happen  to  my  rival, 
will  happen  to  you  throughout  life.  Your  being  is  in  one  world,  your 
soul  is  in  another.  Alas  !  how  foolishly  I  run  on,  as  if  seeking  in  your 
nature  and  not  circumstances  the  blow  that  separates  us. 

"  I  shall  hasten  to  a  conclusion.  I  have  gained  a  refuge  in  this  con- 
vent ;  seek  me  not,  follow  me  not,  I  implore,  I  adjure  thee  ;  it  can  serve 
no  purpose.  I  would  not  see  thee ;  the  veil  is  already  drawn  between 
thy  world  and  me,  and  it  only  remains,  in  kindness  and  in  charity,  to 
bid  each  other  farewell.  Farewell,  then  !  I  think  I  am  now  with  thee  ; 
I  think  my  lips  have  breathed  aside  thy  long  hair,  and  cling  to  thy  fair 
temples  with  a  sister's  —  that  word,  at  least,  is  left  me  —  a  sister's  kiss. 
As  we  stood  together,  at  the  gray  dawn,  when  we  last  parted  ;  as  then, 
in  sorrow  and  in  tears,  I  hid  my  face  in  thy  bosom  ;  as  then,  uncon- 
scious of  what  was  to  come,  I  poured  forth  my  assurances  of  faithful 
unswerving  thought ;  as  thrice  thou  didst  tear  thyself  from  me  and 
didst  thrice  return,  —  and  as,  through  the  comfortless  mists  of  morn  I 
gazed  after  thee,  and  fancied  for  hours  that  thy  last  words  yet  rancr  in 
my  ear,  so  now,  but  with  different  feelings,  I  once  more  bid  thee  fare- 
well, —  farewell  forever  !  " 


228  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

GODOLPHIN. 

*'  No,  signor,  she  will  not  see  you  I  " 

"  You  have  given  my  note,  given  that  ring?  " 

"I  have,  and  she  still  refuses." 

"Refuses?  —  and  is  that  all  the  answer;  no  line  to  —  to 
soften  the  reply?" 

"Signor,  I  have  spoken  all  my  message." 

"Cruel,  hard-hearted!  May  I  call  again,  think  you,  with  a 
better  success?" 

"The  convent,  at  stated  times,  is  open  to  strangers,  signor; 
but  so  far  as  the  young  signora  is  concerned  I  feel  assured, 
from  her  manner,  that  your  visits  will  be  in  vain." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  understand  you,  madam;  you  wish  to  entice  her 
from  the  wicked  world, —  to  suffer  not  human  friendships  to 
disturb  her  thoughts.  Good  heavens !  and  can  she,  so  young, 
so  ardent,  dream  of  taking  the  veil?  " 

"She  does  not  dream  of  it,"  said  the  nun,  coolly;  "she  has 
no  intention  of  remaining  here  long." 

"  Befriend  me,  I  beseech  you !  "  cried  Godolphin,  eagerly ; 
"restore  her  to  me;  let  me  only  come  once  to  her  within 
these  walls  and  I  will  enrich  your  — " 

"Signor,  good-day." 

Dejected,  melancholy,  and  yet  enraged  amidst  all  his  sor- 
row, Godolphin  returned  to  Rome,  Lucilla's  letter  rankled 
in  his  heart  like  the  barb  of  a  broken  arrow ;  but  the  stern 
resolve  with  which  she  had  refused  to  see  him  appeared  to 
the  pride  that  belongs  to  manhood  a  harsh  and  unfeeling  in- 
sult. He  knew  not  that  poor  Lucilla's  eyes  had  watched  him 
from  the  walls  of  the  convent,  and  that  while,  for  his  sake 
more  than  her  own,  she  had  refused  the  meeting  he  prayed 
for,  she  had  not  the  resolution  to  deny  herself  the  luxury  of 
gazing  on  him  once  more. 


GODOLPHIN.  229 

He  readied  Kome ;  he  found  a  note  on  his  table  from  Lady 
Charlotte  Deerham,  saying  she  had  heard  it  was  his  intention 
to  leave  Eome,  and  begging  him  to  receive  from  her  that 
evening  her  adieus.  "Lady  Erpingham  will  be  with  me," 
concluded  the  note. 

This  brought  a  new  train  of  ideas.  Since  Lucilla's  flight, 
all  thought  but  of  Lucilla  had  been  expelled  from  Godolphin's 
mind.  We  have  seen  how  his  letter  to  Lady  Erpingham  mis- 
carried :  he  had  written  no  other.  How  strange  to  Constance 
must  seem  his  conduct,  after  the  scene  of  the  avowal  in  the 
Siren's  Cave:  no  excuse  on  the  one  hand,  no  explanation  on 
the  other;  and  now  what  explanation  should  he  give?  There 
was  no  longer  a  necessity,  for  it  was  no  longer  honesty  and 
justice  to  fly  from  the  bliss  that  might  await  him, —  the  love 
of  his  early-worshipped  Constance.  But  could  he,  with  a 
heart  yet  bleeding  from  the  violent  rupture  of  one  tie,  form 
a  new  one?  Agitated,  restless,  self-reproachful,  bewildered, 
and  uncertain,  he  could  not  bear  thoughts  that  demanded 
answers  to  a  thousand  questions ;  he  flung  from  his  cheerless 
room,  and  hastened,  with  a  feverish  pulse  and  burning  tem- 
ples, to  Lady  Charlotte  Deerham's. 

"  Good  heavens !  how  ill  you  look,  Mr.  Godolphin !  "  cried 
the  hostess,  involuntarily. 

"111! — ha,  ha!  I  never  was  better;  but  I  have  just  re- 
turned from  a  long  journey :  I  have  not  touched  food  nor  felt 
sleep  for  three  days  and  nights.  I  —  ha,  ha !  no,  I  'm  not  ill ;  " 
and,  with  an  eye  bright  with  gathering  delirium,  Godolphin 
glared  around  him. 

Lady  Charlotte  drew  back  and  shuddered;  Godolphin  felt  a 
cool,  soft  hand  laid  on  his ;  he  turned,  and  the  face  of  Con- 
stance, full  of  anxious  and  wondering  pity,  was  bent  upon 
him.  He  stood  arrested  for  one  moment,  and  then,  seizing 
that  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  his  heart,  and  burst  suddenly 
into  tears.  That  paroxysm  saved  his  life;  for  days  after- 
wards he  was  insensible. 


230  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE    DECLAKATIOlSr.  THE    APPROACHING    NUPTIALS.  IS    THE 

IDEALIST    CONTENTED? 

As  Godolphin  returned  to  health,  and,  day  after  day,  the 
presence  of  Constance,  her  soft  tones,  her  deep  eyes,  grew  on 
him,  renewing  their  ancient  spells,  the  reader  must  perceive 
that  bourne  to  which  events  necessarily  tended.  For  some 
weeks  not  a  word  that  alluded  to  the  Siren's  Cave  was  uttered 
by  either;  but  when  that  allusion  came  at  last  from  Godol- 
phin's  lips,  the  next  moment  he  was  kneeling  beside  Con- 
stance, her  hand  surrendered  to  his,  and  her  proud  cheek  all 
bathed  in  the  blushes  of  sixteen. 

"And  so,"  said  Saville,  "you,  Percy  Godolphin,  are  at  last 
the  accepted  lover  of  Constance,  Countess  of  Erpingham. 
When  is  the  wedding  to  be?  " 

"  I  know  not, "  replied  Godolphin,  musingly. 

"Well,  I  almost  envy  you;  you  will  be  very  happy  for  six 
weeks,  and  that 's  something  in  this  disagreeable  world.  Yet, 
now  I  look  on  you,  I  grow  reconciled  to  myself  again;  you  do 
not  seem  so  happy  as  that  I,  Aug-ustus  Saville,  should  envy 
you  while  my  digestion  lasts.     What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  replied  Godophin,  vacantly;  the  words  of  Lu- 
cilla  were  weighing  at  his  heart,  like  a  prophecy  working 
towards  its  fulfilment:  ^^  Come  what  may,  you  will  never  find 
the  happiness  you  ask  :  you  exact  too  m.uchy 

At  that  moment  Lady  Erpingham 's  page  entered  with  a 
note  from  Constance,  and  a  present  of  flowers.  No  one  ever 
wrote  half  so  beautifully,  so  spiritually,  as  Constance ;  and  to 
Percy  the  wit  was  so  intermingled  with  the  tenderness ! 

"No,"  said  he,  burying  his  lips  among  the  flowers;  "no!  I 
discard  the  foreboding ;  with  you  I  must  be  happy !  "  But 
conscience,  still  unsilenced,  whispered  Lucilla  ! 


GODOLPHIX.  231 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  Eome.  The  day  was 
fixed ;  and,  owing  to  Constance's  rank,  beauty,  and  celebrity, 
the  news  of  the  event  created  throughout  "the  English  in 
Italy  "  no  small  sensation.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  gossip, 
of  course,  on  the  occasion;  and  some  of  this  gossip  found  its 
way  to  the  haughty  ears  of  Constance.  It  was  said  that  she 
had  made  a  strange  match, —  that  it  was  a  curious  weakness 
in  one  so  proud  and  brilliant  to  look  no  loftier  than  a  private 
and  not  very  wealthy  gentleman;  handsome,  indeed,  and  re- 
puted clever ;  but  one  who  had  never  distinguished  himself  in 
anything, —  who  never  would! 

Constance  was  alarmed  and  stung,  not  at  the  vulgar  accu- 
sation, the  paltry  sneer,  but  at  the  prophecy  relating  to  Go- 
dolphin:  "He  had  never  distinguished  himself  in  anything, — 
he  never  Avould."  Eank,  wealth,  power,  Constance  felt  these 
she  wanted  not,  these  she  could  command  of  herself;  but  she 
felt  also  that  a  nobler  vanity  of  her  nature  required  that  the 
man  of  her  mature  and  second  choice  should  not  be  one  in  re- 
pute of  that  mere  herd,  above  whom  in  reality  his  genius  so 
eminently  exalted  him.  She  deemed  it  essential  to  her  future 
happiness  that  Godolphin's  ambition  should  be  aroused,  that 
he  should  share  her  ardour  for  those  great  objects  that  she 
felt  would  forever  be  dear  to  her. 

"  I  love  Rome !  "  said  she,  passionately,  one  day,  as  accom- 
panied by  Godolphin,  she  left  the  Vatican;  "I  feel  my  soul 
grow  larger  amidst  its  ruins.  Elsewhere  through  Italy  we 
live  in  the  present,  but  here  in  the  past." 

"Say  not  that  that  is  the  better  life,  dear  Constance;  the 
present  —  can  we  surpass  it?  " 

Constance  blushed,  and  thanked  her  lover  with  a  look  that 
told  him  he  was  understood. 

"Yet,"  said  she,  returning  to  the  subject,  "who  can  breathe 
the  air  that  is  rife  with  glory,  and  not  be  intoxicated  with 
emulation?     Ah,  Percy!" 

"Ah,  Constance!  and  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me?  Is 
it  not  glory  enough  to  be  thy  lover?  " 

"Let  the  world  be  as  proud  of  my  choice  as  I  am." 

Godolphin  frowned;  he  penetrated  in  those  words  to  Con- 


232  GODOLPHIK 

stance's  secret  meaning.  Accustomed  to  be  an  idol  from  his 
boyhood,  he  resented  the  notion  that  he  had  need  of  exertion 
to  render  him  worthy  even  of  Constance;  and  sensible  that  it 
might  be  thought  he  had  made  an  alliance  beyond  his  just 
pretensions,  he  was  doubly  tenacious  as  to  his  own  claims. 
Godolphin  frowned,  then,  and  turned  away  in  silence.  Con- 
stance sighed;  she  felt  that  she  might  not  renew  the  subject. 
But  after  a  pause  Godolphin  himself  continued  it. 

"Constance,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  firm  voice,  "let  us  under- 
stand each  other.  You  are  all  to  me  in  the  world, — fame  and 
honour  and  station  and  happiness.  Am  I,  also,  that  all  to 
you?  If  there  be  any  thought  at  your  heart  which  whispers 
you,  *  You  might  have  served  your  ambition  better;  you  have 
done  wrong  in  yielding  to  love  and  love  only, ' —  then,  Con- 
stance, pause;   it  is  not  too  late." 

"Do  I  deserve  this,  Percy?  " 

"You  drop  words  sometimes,"  answered  Godolphin,  "that 
seem  to  indicate  that  you  think  the  world  may  cavil  at  your 
choice,  and  that  some  exertion  on  my  part  is  necessary  to 
maintain  your  dignity.  Constance,  need  I  say,  again  and 
again,  that  I  adore  the  very  dust  you  tread  on?  But  I  have 
a  pride,  a  self-respect,  beneath  which  I  cannot  stoop;  if  you 
really  think  or  feel  this,  I  will  not  condescend  to  receive  even 
happiness  from  you:  let  us  part." 

Constance  saw  his  lips  white  and  quivering  as  he  spoke; 
her  heart  smote  her,  her  pride  vanished;  she  sank  on  his 
shoulder,  and  forgot  even  ambition;  nay,  while  she  inly 
murmured  at  his  sentiment,  she  felt  it  breathed  a  sort  of 
nobility  that  she  could  not  but  esteem.  She  strove  then  to 
lull  to  rest  all  her  more  worldly  anxieties  for  the  future;  to 
hope  that,  cast  on  the  exciting  stage  of  English  ambition, 
Godolphin  must  necessarily  be  stirred  despite  his  creed;  and 
if  she  sometimes  doubted,  sometimes  despaired  of  this,  she 
felt  at  least  that  his  presence  had  become  dearer  to  her  than 
all  things.  N^ay,  she  checked  her  own  enthusiasm,  her  own 
worship  of  fame,  since  they  clashed  with  his  opinions;  so 
marvellously  and  insensibly  had  Love  bowed  down  the  proud 
energies  and  the  lofty  soul  of  the  daughter  of  John  Vernon, 


GODOLPHIN.  233 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THE   BRIDALS.  —  THE   ACCIDEXT.  THE  FIRST  LAWFUL   POS" 

SESSIOX   OF    LOVE. 

It  was  the  morning  on  which  Constance  and  Godolphin  were 
to  be  married ;  it  had  been  settled  that  they  were  to  proceed 
the  same  day  towards  Florence,  and  Constance  was  at  her 
toilette  when  her  woman  laid  beside  her  a  large  bouquet  of 
flowers. 

"From  Percy  —  from  Mr,  Godolphin,  I  mean?"  she  asked, 
taking  them  up, 

"No,  my  lady;  a  young  woman  outside  the  palace  gave 
them  me,  and  bade  me  in  such  pretty  English  be  sure  to  give 
them  to  your  ladyship;  and  when  I  offered  her  money,  she 
would  not  take  anything,  my  lady." 

"The  Italians  are  a  courteous  people,"  replied  Constance; 
and  she  placed  the  flowers  in  her  bosom. 

As,  after  the  ceremony,  Godolphin  assisted  his  bride  into 
the  carriage,  a  girl,  wrapped  in  a  large  cloak,  pressed  forward 
for  a  moment,  Godolphin  had  in  that  moment  turned  his 
head  to  give  some  order  to  his  servant,  and  with  the  next  the 
girl  had  sunk  back  into  the  throng  that  was  drawn  around  the 
carriage  —  yet  not  before  Constance  had  heard  her  murmur  in 
deep,  admiring,  yet  sorrowful  tone:  "Beautiful!  hoxu  beauti- 
ful!—Ah  me!" 

"  Did  you  observe  what  beautiful  eyes  that  young  girl  had?  " 
asked  Constance,  as  the  carriage  whirled  off, 

"What  girl?     I  saw  nothing  but  you!  " 

"Hark!  there  is  a  noise  behind," 

Godolphin  looked  out;  the  crowd  seemed  collected  round 
one  person, 

"Only  a  young  woman  fainted,  sir!"  said  his  servant, 
seated  behind.  "She  fell  down  in  a  fit  just  before  the 
horses;  but  they  started  aside,  and  did  not  hurt  her." 


234  GODOLPHIN. 

"That  is  fortunate!  "  said  Godolphin,  reseating  himself  by 
his  new  bride;  "drive  on  faster." 

At  Florence,  Godolphin  revealed  to  Constance  the  outline 
of  Lucilla's  history,  and  Constance  shared  somewhat  of  the 
feelings  with  which  he  told  it. 

"I  left,"  said  he,  "in  the  hands  of  the  abbess  a  sum  to  be 
entirely  at  Lucilla's  control,  whether  she  stay  in  the  convent 
or  not,  and  which  will  always  secure  to  her  an  independence. 
But  I  confess  I  should  like  now  once  more  to  visit  the  con- 
vent, and  learn  on  what  fate  she  has  decided." 

"You  would  do  well,  dear  Percy,"  replied  Constance,  who 
from  her  high  and  starred  sphere  could  stoop  to  no  vulgar 
jealousy;  "indeed,  I  think  you  could  do  no  less." 

And  Godolphin  covered  those  generous  lips  with  the  sweet 
kisses  in  which  esteem  begins  to  mingle  with  passion.     What 
has  the  earth  like  that  first  fresh  union  of  two  hearts  long 
separated,    and   now   blended   forever?     However   close   the 
sympathy  between  woman  and  her  lover,  however  each  thinks 
to  have  learned  the  other,  what  a  world  is  there  left  un- 
learned,  until  marriage  brings  all  those  charming  confidences, 
that  holy  and  sweet  intercourse,  which  leaves  no  separate  in- 
terest, no  undivided  thought!     But  there  is  one  thing  that 
distinguishes  the  conversation  of  young  married  people  from 
that  of  lovers  on  a  less  sacred  footing,— fAe^  tallc  of  the 
future  !     Other  lovers  talk  rather  of  the  past;  an  uncertainty 
pervades  their  hereafter;  they  feel,  they  recoil  from  it;  they 
are  sensible  that  their  plans  are  not  one  and  indivisible.    But 
married  people  are  always  laying  out  the  "to  come;  "  always 
talking  over  their  plans:    this  often  takes  something  away 
from  the  tenderness  of  affection,  but  how  much  it  adds  to  its 

enjoyment!  ^ 

Seated  by  each  other,  and  looking  on  the  silver  Arno  Go- 
dolphin and  Constance,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  surrendered 
themselves  to  the  contemplation  of  their  future  happiness. 
"And  what  would  be   your   favourite  mode   of    life,    dear 

Percy*^ " 

"Why,  I  have  now  no  schemings  left  me,  Constance.  With 
you  obtained,  I  have  grown  a  dullard,  and  left  off  dreaming. 


GODOLPHIX. 


285 


But  let  me  see,  a  house  in  England  -  you  like  England  -  some 
ten  or  twenty  miles  from  the  great  Babel;  books,  pictures, 
statues,  and  old  trees  that  shall  put  us  in  mind  of  our  Gor- 
man fathers  who  planted  them;  above  all,  a  noisy,  clear 
sunny  stream  gliding  amidst  them;  deer  on  the  opposite 
bank  half  hidden  amongst  the  fern,  and  rooks  overhead;  a 
privilege  for  eccentricity  that  would  allow  one  to  be  social  or 
solitary  as  one  pleased;  and  a  house  so  full  of  guests,  that  to 
shun  them  all  now  and  then  would  be  no  aifront  to  one. 
"Well,"  said  Constance,  smiling,  "go  on." 
"I  have  finished." 

"Finished?"  „ 

"Yes   my  fair  Insatiable!    What  more  would  you  have? 
"Why,  this  is  but  a  country-life  you  have  been  talking  of, 
—  very  well  in  its  way  for  three  months  in  the  year." 
"Italy,  then,  for  the  other  nine,"  returned  Godolphm. 
"Ah,  Percy!   is  pleasure,  mere  pleasure,  vulgar  pleasure, 
to  be  really  the  sole  end  and  aim  of  life?  " 

"Assuredly."  _        ^^ 

"And  action,  enterprise,— are  these  as  nothing? 
Godolphin  was  silent,  but  began  absently  to  throw  pebbles 
into  the  water.  The  action  reminded  Constance  of  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  seen  him  among  his  ancestral  groves;  and 
she  sic^hed  as  she  now  gazed  on  a  brow  from  which  the  effemi- 
nacy Tnd  dreaming  of  his  life  had  banished  much  of  its  early 
chivalric  and  earnest  expression. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

NEWS    OF    LUCILLA. 


GoDOLPHix  was  about  one  morning  to  depart  for  the  con- 
vent to  which  Lucilla  had  flown,  when  a  letter  was  brought 
to  him  from  the  abbess  of  the  convent  herself;  it  had  fol- 
lowed him  from  Rome.     Lucilla  had  left  her  retreat,—  left  it 


236  GODOLPHIN. 

three  days  before  Godolpliin's  marriage;  the  abbess  knew  not 
wliither,  but  believed  she  intended  to  reside  in  Kome.  She 
inclosed  him  a  note  from  Lucilla,  left  for  him  before  her.  de- 
parture.    Short  but  characteristic,  it  ran  thus :  — 

LUCILLA  TO  GODOLPHIN. 

"  I  can  stay  here  no  longer ;  my  mind  will  not  submit  to  quiet  ;  this 
inactivity  wears  me  to  madness.  Besides,  I  want  to  see  thy  wife.  I 
shall  go  to  Rome  ;  I  shall  witness  thy  wedding ;  and  then  —  ah  !  what 
then  ?  Give  me  back,  Godolphin,  oh,  give  me  back  the  young  pure 
heart  I  had  ere  I  loved  you !  Then,  I  could  take  joy  in  all  things ; 
noto !  —  But  I  will  not  repine ;  it  is  beneath  me.  I,  the  daughter  of  the 
stars,  am  no  love-sick  and  nerveless  minion  of  a  vain  regret ;  my  pride 
is  roused  at  last,  and  I  feel  at  least  the  independence  of  being  alone. 
Wild  and  roving  shall  be  my  future  life ;  that  lot  which  denies  me  hope 
has  raised  me  above  all  fear.  Love  makes  us  all  the  woman  ;  love  has 
left  me,  and  something  hard  and  venturous,  something  that  belongs  to 
thy  sex,  has  come  in  its  stead. 

"  You  have  left  me  money  —  I  thank  you  —  I  thank  you  —  I  thank 
you  ;  my  heart  almost  chokes  me  as  I  write  this.  Could  you  think  of 
me  so  basely  ?  For  shame,  man !  if  my  child  —  our  child  were  living 
(and  O  Percy,  she  had  thine  eyes !),  I  would  see  her  starve  inch  by 
inch  rather  than  touch  one  doit  of  thy  bounty  !  But  she  is  dead,  thank 
God  !  Fear  not  for  me,  I  shall  not  starve  ;  these  hands  can  support 
life.  God  bless  thee,  —  loved  as  thou  still  art!  Jf,  years  hence,  I 
should  feel  my  end  draw  near,  I  will  drag  myself  to  thy  country,  and 
look  once  more  on  thy  face  before  I  die." 

Godolphin  sank  down,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
Constance  took  up  the  letter.  "Ay,  read  it!  "  said  he,  in  a 
hollow  voice.  She  did  so,  and  when  she  had  finished,  the 
proud  Constance,  struck  by  a  spirit  like  her  own,  bathed  the 
letter  in  her  tears.  This  pleased,  this  touched,  this  consoled 
Godolphin  more  than  the  most  elaborate  comfortings.  "  Poor 
girl !  "  said  Constance,  through  her  tears,  "  this  must  not  be ; 
she  must  not  be  left  on  the  wide  world  to  her  own  despairing 
heart.  Let  us  both  go  to  Eome,  and  seek  her  out.  I  will 
persuade  her  to  accept  what  she  refuses  from  you." 

Godolphin  pressed  his  wife's  hand,  but  spoke  not.  They 
went  that  day  to  Rome.     Lucilla  had  departed  for  Leghorn, 


GODOLPHIN.  237 

and  thence  taken  her  passage  in  a  vessel  bound  to  the  northern 
coasts  of  Europe.  Perhaps  she  had  sought  her  father's  land? 
With  that  hope,  in  the  absence  of  all  others,  they  attempted 
to  console  themselves. 


CHAPTEE  XLYIII. 

IX    "WHICH    TWO    PERSONS,     PERMAXEXTLY    UNITED,     DISCOVER 
THAT    NO    TIE    CAN    PRODUCE    UNION    OF    MINDS. 

Weeks  passed  on,  and,  apparently,  Godolphin  had  recon- 
ciled himself  to  the  disappearance  and  precarious  destiny  of 
Lucilla.  It  was  not  in  his  calm  and  brooding  nature  to  show 
much  of  emotion ;  but  there  was  often,  even  in  the  presence 
of  Constance,  a  cloud  on  his  brow,  and  the  fits  of  abstraction 
to  which  he  had  always  been  accustomed  grew  upon  him  more 
frequently  than  ever.  Constance  had  been  inured  for  years 
to  the  most  assiduous,  the  most  devoted  attentions ;  and  now, 
living  much  alone  with  Godolphin,  she  began  somewhat  to 
miss  them, —  for  Godolphin  could  be  a  passionate,  a  romantic, 
but  he  could  not  be  a  very  watchful  lover.  He  had  no  petits 
soins.  Few  husbands  have,  it  is  true ;  nor  is  it  necessary  for 
husbands  in  general.  But  Constance  was  not  an  ordinary 
woman;  she  loved  deeply,  but  she  loved  according  to  her 
nature,  as  a  woman  proud  and  exacting  must  love.  For  Go- 
dolphin, her  haughty  step  waxed  timorous  and  vigilant;  she 
always  sprang  forward  the  first  to  meet  him  on  his  return 
from  his  solitary  ramblings,  and  he  smiled  upon  her  with 
his  wonted  gentleness, —  but  not  so  gratefully,  thought  Con- 
stance, as  he  ought.  In  truth,  he  had  been  too  much  accus- 
tomed to  the  eager  love  of  Lucilla  to  feel  greatly  surprised  at 
any  proof  of  tenderness  from  Constance.  Thus,  too  proud  to 
speak,  to  hint  a  complaint,  Constance  was  nevertheless  per- 
petually wounded,  and  by  degrees  (although  not  loving  her 


238  GODOLPHIN. 

husband  less)  she  taught  that  love  to  be  more  concealed.  Oh, 
that  accursed  secretiveness  in  women,  which  makes  them 
always  belie  themselves! 

Godolphin,  too,  was  not  without  his  disappointments.  There 
was  something  so  bright,  so  purel}^  intellectual  about  Con- 
stance's character,  that  at  times,  when  brought  into  constant 
intercourse  with  her,  you  longed  for  some  human  weakness, 
some  wild,  warm  error  on  which  to  repose.  Dazzling  and 
fair  as  snow,  like  snow  your  eye  ached  to  gaze  upon  her.  She 
had,  during  the  years  of  her  ungeuial  marriage,  cultivated  her 
mind  to  the  utmost;  few  women  were  so  accomplished, —  it 
might  be  learned;  her  conversation  flowed  forever  in  the  same 
bright,  flowery,  adorned  stream.  There  were  times  when 
Godolphin  recollected  how  hard  it  is  to  read  a  volume  of  that 
Gibbon  who  in  a  page  is  so  delightful.  Her  aifection  for 
him  was  intense,  high,  devoted;  but  it  was  Avholly  of  the 
same  intellectual  spiritualized  order;  it  seemed  to  Godolphin 
to  want  human  Avarmth  and  fondness.  In  fact,  there  never 
was  a  woman  who,  both  by  original  nature  and  after  habits, 
was  so  purely  and  abstractedly  "mind"  as  was  Constance; 
there  was  not  a  single  trait  or  taste  in  her  character  that  a 
sensualist  could  have  sneered  at.  Her  heart  was  wholly 
Godolphin's;  her  mind  was  generous,  sympathizing,  lofty; 
her  person  unrivalled  in  the  majesty  of  its  loveliness;  all 
these,  too,  were  Godolphin's,  and  yet  the  eternal  something 
was  wanting  still. 

"I  have  brought  you  your  hat,  Percy,"  said  Constance; 
"you  forget  the  dews  are  falling  fast,  and  your  head  is 
uncovered. " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Percy,  gently;  yet  Constance  thought 
the  tone  might  have  been  warmer.  "  How  beautiful  is  this 
hour!  Look  yonder,  the  sun's  ray  still  upon  those  immortal 
hills,  that  lone  gray  tower  amongst  the  far  plains,  the  pines 
around  —  hearken  to  their  sighing!  These  are  indeed  the 
scenes  of  the  Dryad  and  the  Faun.  These  are  scenes  where 
we  could  melt  our  whole  nature  down  to  love:  Nature  never 
meant  us  for  the  stern  and  arid  destinies  we  fulfil.  Look 
round,  Constance,  in  every  leaf  of  her  gorgeous  book,  how 


GODOLPHIN.  239 

glowingly  is  written  the  one  sentence,  'Love  and  be  happy!  ' 
You  answer  not;  to  these  thoughts  you  are  cold." 

"They  breathe  too  much  of  the  Epicurean  and  his  rose- 
leaves  for  me,"  answered  Constance,  smilingly.  "I  love  bet- 
ter that  stern  old  tower,  telling  of  glorious  strife  and  great 
deeds,  than  all  the  softer  landscape,  on  which  the  present 
debasement  of  the  South  seems  written." 

"You  and  your  English,"  said  Godolphin,  somewhat  bit- 
terly, "prate  of  the  debasement  of  my  poor  Italians  in  a 
jargon  that  I  confess  almost  enrages  me."  (Constance  col- 
oured and  bit  her  lip.)  "Debasement!  why  debasement? 
They  enjoy  themselves:  they  take  from  life  its  just  moral; 
they  do  not  affect  the  more  violent  crimes;  they  feel  their 
mortality,  follow  its  common  ends,  are  frivolous,  contented, 
and  die!  Well;  this  is  debasement.  Be  it  so.  But  for  what 
would  you  exchange  it?  The  hard,  cold,  ferocious  guilt  of 
ancient  Rome;  the  detestable  hypocrisy,  the  secret  villany, 
fraud,  murder,  that  stamped  republican  Venice?  The  days  of 
glory  that  you  lament  are  the  days  of  the  darkest  guilt ;  and 
man  shudders  when  he  reads  what  the  fair  moralizers  over 
the  soft  and  idle  Italy  sigh  to  recall!" 

"You  are  severe,"  said  Constance,  with  a  pained  voice. 
"Eorgive   me,   dearest,   but  you  are   often   severe  on  my 
feelings." 

Constance  was  silent;  the  magic  of  the  sunset  was  gone; 
they  walked  back  to  the  house,  thoughtful,  and  somewhat 
cooled  towards  each  other. 

Another  day,  on  which  the  rain  forbade  them  to  stir  from 
home,  Godolphin,  after  he  had  remained  long  silent  and  medi- 
tating, said  to  Constance,  who  was  busy  writing  letters  to  her 
political  friends,  in  which,  avoiding  Italy  and  love,  the  schem- 
•  ing  countess  dwelt  only  on  busy  England  and  its  eternal 
politics, — 

"Will  you  read  to  me,  dear  Constance?  my  spirits  are  sad 
to-day;  the  weather  affects  them." 

Constance  laid  aside  her  letters,  and  took  up  one  of  the 
many  books  that  strewed  the  table :  it  was  a  volume  of  one  of 
our  most  popular  poets. 


240  GODOLPIIIN. 

"  I  hate  poetry, "  said  Godolphin,  languidly. 

"Here  is  Machiavel's  history  of  the  Prince  of  Lucca,"  said 
Constance,  quickly. 

"  Ah,  read  that,  and  see  how  odious  is  ambition, "  returned 
Godolphin. 

And  Constance  read,  but  she  warmed  at  what  Godolphin 's 
lip  curled  with  disdain.  The  sentiments,  however,  drew  him 
from  his  apathy ;  and  presently,  with  the  eloquence  he  could 
command  when  once  excited,  he  poured  forth  the  doctrines  of 
his  peculiar  philosophy.  Constance  listened,  delighted  and 
absorbed;  she  did  not  sympathize  with  the  thought,  but  she 
was  struck  with  the  genius  which  clothed  it.  "  Ah, "  said  she, 
with  enthusiasm,  "  why  should  those  brilliant  words  be  thus 
spoken  and  lost  forever?  Why  not  stamp  them  on  the  living 
page,  or  why  not  invest  them  in  the  oratory  that  would  render 
you  illustrious  and  them  immortal?" 

"Excellent!"  said  Godolphin,  laughing;  "The  House  of 
Commons  would  sympathize  with  philosophy  warmly!" 

Yet  Constance  was  right  on  the  whole.  But  the  curse  of  a 
life  of  pleasure  is  its  aversion  to  useful  activity.  Talk  of  the 
genius  that  lies  crushed  and  obscure  in  poverty!  Wealth 
and  station  have  also  their  mute  Miltons  and  inglorious 
Hampdens. 

Alas!  how  much  of  deep  and  true  wisdom  do  we  meet 
among  the  triflers  of  the  world !  How  much  that  in  the  stern 
middle  walks  of  life  would  have  obtained  renown,  in  the 
withering  and  relaxed  air  of  loftier  rank  dies  away  unheeded! 
The  two  extremes  meet  in  this, —  the  destruction  of  mental 
gifts. 


GODOLPHIX.  241 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

THE  RETURX  TO  LOXDOX.  —  THE  ETERNAL  NATURE  OF  DIS- 
APPOINTMENT. —  FANNY  MILLINGER.  —  HER  HOUSE  AND 
SUPPER. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  spring,  and  at  the  approach  of 
night,  that  our  travellers  entered  London.  After  an  absence 
of  some  duration,  there  is  a  singular  emotion  on  returning  to 
the  roar  and  tumult  of  that  vast  city.  Its  bustle,  its  life,  its 
wealth,  —  the  tokens  of  the  ambition  and  commerce  of  the 
Great  Island  Eace, — have  something  of  inconceivable  excite- 
ment and  power,  after  the  comparative  desertion  and  majestic 
stillness  of  Continental  cities.  Constance  leaned  restlessly 
forth  from  the  window  of  the  carriage  as  it  whirled  on. 

"Oh,  that  I  were  a  man!  "  said  she,  fervently. 

"And  why?"  asked  Godolphin,  smilingly. 

"Why!  look  out  on  this  broad  theatre  of  universal  ambi- 
tion, and  read  the  why.  What  a  proud  and  various  career 
lies  open  in  this  free  city  to  every  citizen!  Look,  look 
yonder,  —  the  old  hereditary  senate,  still  eloquent  with  high 
memories." 

"And  close  by  it,"  said  Godolphin,  sneering,  "behold  the 
tomb!  " 

"Yes,  but  the  tomb  of  great  men!"  said  Constance, 
eagerly. 

"The  victims  of  their  greatness." 

There  was  a  pause;  Constance  would  not  reply,  she  would 
scarcely  listen. 

"And  do  you  feel  no  excitement,  Percy,  in  the  hum  and 
bustle,  the  lights,  the  pomp  of  your  native  city?  " 

"Yes;  I  am  in  the  mart  where  all  enjoyment  may  be 
purchased." 

"Ah,  fie!" 

16 


242  GODOLPIIIN. 

Godolphin  drew  his  cloak  round  him,  and  put  up  the 
window. 

"These  cursed  east  winds!  " 
Very  true  —  they  are  the  curse  of  the  country ! 
The  carriage  stopped  at  the  stately  portico  of  Erpingham 
House.  Godolphin  felt  a  little  humiliated  at  being  indeblied 
to  another, —  to  a  woman, —  for  so  splendid  a  tenement;  but 
Constance,  not  penetrating  into  this  sentiment,  hastened  up 
the  broad  stairs,  and  said,  pointing  to  a  door  that  led  to  her 
boudoir, — 

"In  that  room  Cabinets  have  been  formed  and  shaken." 
Godolphin  laughed;  he  was  alive  only  to  the  vanity  of  the 
boast,  because  he  shared  not  the  enthusiasm ;  this  was  Con- 
stance's weak  point:   her  dark  eye  flashed  fire. 

There  's  nothing  bores  a  man  more  than  the  sort  of  uneasy 
quiet  that  follows  a  day's  journey.  Godolphin  took  his  hat, 
and  yawningly  stretching  himself,  nodded  to  Constance,  and 
moved  to  the  door;  they  were  in  her  dressing-room  at  the 
time. 

"Why,  what,  Percy,  you  cannot  be  going  out  now?  " 
"Indeed  I  am,  my  love." 
"  Where,  in  Heaven's  name?  " 

"To  White's,  to  learn  the  news  of  the  Opera,  and  the 
strength  of  the  Ballet." 

"  I  had  just  rung  for  lights  to  show  you  the  house !  "  said 
Constance,  disappointed,  and  half -reproachfully. 

"Mercy,  Constance!  damp  rooms  and  east  winds  together 
are  too  much.  House,  indeed!  what  can  there  be  worth  see- 
ing in  your  English  drawing-rooms  after  the  marble  palaces 
of  Italy?     Any  commands?" 

"  None !  "  said  Constance,  sinking  back  into  her  chair,  with 
the  tears  in  her  eyes.  Godolphin  did  not  perceive  them;  he 
was  only  displeased  by  the  cold  tone  of  her  answer,  and  he 
shut  the  door,  muttering  to  himself,  "Was  there  ever  such 
indelicate  ostentation!  " 

"And  thus,"  said  Constance,  bitterly,  "I  return  to  Eng- 
land; friendless,  unloved,  solitary  in  my  schemes  and  my 
heart  as  I  was  before.     Awake,  my  soul!  thou  art  my  sole 


.  GODOLPHIN.  243 

strength,  my  sole  support.  Weak,  weak  that  I  was,  to  love 
this  man  in  spite  of  —  Well,  well,  I  am  not  sunk  so  low  as 
to  regret." 

So  saying,  she  wiped  away  a  few  tears,  and  turning  with  a 
strong  effort  from  softer  thoughts,  leaned  her  cheek  on  her 
hand,  and  gazing  on  the  fire,  surrendered  herself  to  the 
sterner  and  more  plotting  meditations  which  her  return  to 
the  circle  of  her  old  ambition  had  at  first  called  forth. 

Meanwhile  Godolphin  sauntered  into  the  then  arch-club  of 
St.  James's,  that  reservoir  of  idle  exquisites  and  kid-gloved 
politicians.  There  are  two  classes  of  popular  men  in  Lon- 
don,—  the  sprightly,  joyous,  good-humoured  set;  the  quiet, 
gentle,  sarcastic  herd.  The  one  are  fellows  called  "  devilish 
good,"  the  other,  fellows  called  "devilish  gentlemanlike."  To 
the  latter  class  belonged  Godolphin.  As  he  had  never  written 
a  book  nor  set  up  for  a  genius,  his  cleverness  was  tacitly  al- 
lowed to  be  no  impediment  to  his  good  qualities.  Nothing 
atones  for  the  sin,  in  the  eyes  of  those  young  gentlemen  who 
create  for  their  contemporaries  reputation,  of  having  in  any 
way  distinguished  oneself.  "  He  's  such  a  d — d  bore,  that 
man  with  his  books  and  poetry,"  said  an  arch-dandy  of  By- 
ron, just  after  "  Childe  Harold  "  had  turned  the  heads  of  the 
women.  There  happened  to  be  a  knot  assembled  at  White's 
when  Godolphin  entered;  they  welcomed  him  affectionately. 

"Wish  you  joy,  old  fellow,"  said  one.  "Bless  me,  Godol- 
phin! well,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  cried  another.  "So 
you  have  monopolized  Lady  Erpingham! — lucky  dog!  "  whis- 
pered a  third. 

Godolphin,  his  vanity  soothed  by  the  reception  he  met 
with,  spent  his  evening  at  the  Club.  The  habit  begun,  be- 
came easy, —  Godolphin  spent  many  evenings  at  his  club. 
Constance,  running  the  round  of  her  acquaintance,  was  too 
proud  to  complain.  Perhaps  complaint  would  not  have 
mended  the  matter;  but  one  word  of  delicate  tenderness,  or 
one  look  that  asked  for  his  society,  and  White's  would  have 
been  forsaken!  Godolphin  secretly  resented  the  very  even- 
ness of  temper  he  had  once  almost  overprized. 

"Oh,   Godolphin,"  one  evening  whispered  a  young  lord, 


244  GODOLPHIN. 

"we  sup  at  the  little  actress's, —  the  Millinger;  you  remem- 
ber the  Millinger?  You  must  come;  you  are  an  old  favourite, 
you  know:  she'll  be  so  glad  to  see  you, —  all  innocent,  by 
the  way :  Lady  Erpingham  need  not  be  jealous  "  —  jealous ! 
Constance  jealous  of  Fanny  Millinger !  —  "  all  innocent.  Come, 
I  '11  drive  you  there;  my  cab  is  at  the  door." 

"Anything  l^etter  than  a  lecture  on  ambition,"  thought 
Godolphin;  and  he  consented.  Godolphin's  friend  was  a 
lively  young  nobleman,  of  that  good-natured,  easy,  uncap- 
tious  temper,  which  a  clever,  susceptible,  indolent  man  often 
likes  better  than  comrades  more  intellectual,  because  he  has 
not  to  put  himself  out  of  his  way  in  the  comradeship.  Lord 
Falconer  rattled  on,  as  they  drove  along  the  brilliant  streets, 
through  a  thousand  topics,  of  which  Godolphin  heard  as  much 
as  he  pleased;  and  Falconer  was  of  that  age  and  those  spirits 
when  a  listener  may  be  easily  dispensed  with. 

They  arrived  at  a  little  villa  at  Brompton.  There  was  a 
little  garden  round  it,  and  a  little  bower  in  one  corner,  all 
kept  excessively  neat;  and  the  outside  of  the  house  had  just 
been  painted  white  from  top  to  bottom ;  and  there  was  a  ve- 
randa to  the  house;  and  the  windows  were  plate-glass,  with 
mahogany  sashes  —  only,  here  and  there,  a  Gothic  casement 
was  stuck  in  by  way  of  looking  "  tasty ;  "  and  through  one 
window  on  the  ground-floor,  the  lights  shining  within  showed 
crimson  silk  and  gilded  chairs,  and  all  sorts  of  finery, —  Louis 
Quatorze  in  a  nutshell !  The  reader  knows  the  sort  of  house 
as  well  as  if  he  had  lived  in  it.  Ladies  of  Fanny  Millinger's 
turn  of  mind  always  choose  the  same  kind  of  habitation.  It 
is  astonishing  what  a  unanimity  of  taste  they  have ;  and  young 
men  about  town  call  it  "  taste  "  too,  and  imitate  the  fashion 
in  their  own  little  tusculums  in  Chapel  Street. 

After  having  threaded  a  Gothic  hall  four  feet  by  eight  and 
an  oval  conservatory  with  a  river-god  in  the  middle,  the  two 
visitors  found  themselves  in  the  presence  of  Fanny  Millinger. 

Godolphin  had  certainly  felt  no  small  curiosity  to  see  again 
the  frank,  fair,  laughing  face  which  had  shone  on  his  boy- 
hood, and  his  mind  ran  busily  back  to  that  summer  evening 
when,  with  a  pulse  how  different  from  its  present  languid 


GODOLPHIN.  245 

tenor,  and  a  heart  burning  with  ardour  and  the  pride  of  novel 
independence,  the  young  adventurer  first  sallied  on  the  world. 
He  drew  back  involuntarily  as  he  now  gazed  on  the  actress : 
she  had  kept  the  promise  of  her  youth,  and  grown  round  and 
full  in  her  proportions.  She  was  extravagantly  dressed,  but 
not  with  an  ungraceful,  although  a  theatrical  choice:  her  fair 
hands  and  arms  were  covered  with  jewels,  and  that  indescrib- 
able air  which  betrays  the  stage  was  far  more  visibly  marked 
in  her  deportment  than  when  Godolphin  first  knew  her;  yet 
still  there  was  the  same  freedom  as  of  old,  the  same  joyous- 
ness,  and  good-humoured  carelessness  in  her  manner,  and  in 
the  silver  ring  of  her  voice  as  she  greeted  Falconer,  and  turned 
to  question  him  as  to  his  friend.  Godolphin  dropped  his 
cloak,  and  the  next  moment,  with  a  pretty  scream,  quite 
stage-effect,  and  yet  quite  natural,  the  actress  had  thrown 
herself  into  his  arms. 

"Oh,  but  I  forgot,"  said  she,  presently,  with  a  mock  salu- 
tation of  respect,  "you  are  married  now;  there  will  be  no 
more  cakes  and  ale.  Ah,  what  long  years  since  we  met;  yet 
I  have  never  quite  forgotten  you,  although  the  stage  requires 
all  one's  memory  for  one's  new  parts.  Alas!  your  hair  —  it 
was  so  beautiful  —  it  has  lost  half  its  curl,  and  grown  thin. 
Very  rude  in  me  to  say  so,  but  I  always  speak  the  truth,  and 
my  heart  warms  to  see  you,  so  all  its  thoughts  thaw  out." 

"Well,"  said  Lord  Falconer,  who  had  been  playing  with  a 
little  muffy  sort  of  dog,  "you  '11  recollect  me  presently." 

"You!  Oh,  one  never  thinks  of  you,  except  when  you 
speak,  and  then  one  recollects  you  —  to  look  at  the  clock." 

"  Very  good,  Fanny  —  very  good.  Fan :  and  when  do  you 
expect  Windsor?  —  He  ought  to  be  here  soon.  Tell  me,  do 
you  like  him  really?" 

^^ Like  him? — yes,  excessively;  just  the  word  for  him  — 
for  you  all.  If  love  were  thrown  into  the  stream  of  life,  my 
little  sail  would  be  upset  in  an  instant.  But  in  truth,  what 
with  dressing  and  playing  and  all  the  grave  business  of  life, 
I  am  not  idle  enough  to  love.  And  oh,  Godolphin,  I  'm  so 
improved!  Ask  Lord  Falconer  if  I  don't  sing  like  an  angel, 
although  my  voice  is  hardly  strong  enough  to  go  round  a  loo- 


246  GODOLPHIX. 

table  J  but  on  the  stage,  one  learns  to  dispense  with  all  quali- 
ties. It  is  a  curious  thing,  that  fictitious  existence,  side  by 
side  with  the  real  one !  We  live  in  enchantment,  Percy,  and 
enjoy  what  the  poets  pretend  to." 

The  dreaming  Godolphin  was  struck  by  the  remark.  He 
was  surprised,  also,  to  see  how  much  Fanny  remained  the 
same.     A  life  of  gayety  had  not  debased  her. 

Tom  Windsor  came  next,  an  Irishman  of  five-and-forty,  not 
like  his  countrymen  in  aught  save  wit.  Thin,  small,  shriv- 
elled, but  up  to  his  ears  in  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  with 
a  jest  forever  on  his  tongue;  rich  and  gay,  he  was  always 
popular,  and  he  made  the  most  of  his  little  life  Avithout  being 
an  absolute  rascal.  Next  dropped  in  the  handsome  French- 
man De  Damville;  next  the  young  gambler  St.  John;  next, 
two  ladies,  both  actresses, — and  the  party  was  complete. 

The  supper  was  in  keeping  with  the  house;  the  best  wines, 
excellent  viands, —  the  actress  had  grown  rich.  Wit,  noise, 
good-humour,  anecdote,  flashed  round  with  the  champagne; 
and  Godolphin,  exhilarated  into  a  second  youth,  fancied  him- 
self once  more  the  votary  of  pleasure. 


CHAPTER  L. 

GODOLPHIn's  soliloquy.  —  HE  BECOMES  A  MAX  OF  PLEASURE 
AND  A  PATROX  OF  THE  ARTS.  A  NEW  CHARACTER  SHAD- 
OWED forth;  FOR  AS  WE  ADVANCE,  WHETHER  IN  LIFE 
OR  ITS  REPRESENTATION,  CHARACTERS  ARE  MORE  FAINT 
AND  DIMLY  DRAWN  THAN  IN  THE  EARLIER  PART  OF  OUR 
CAREER. 

"Yes,"  said  Godolphin,  the  next  morning,  as  he  solilo- 
quized over  his  lonely  breakfast-table,  —  lonely,  for  the  hours 
of  the  restless  Constance  were  not  those  of  the  luxurious  and 
indolent  Godolphin,  and  she  was  already  in  her  carriage ;  nay, 


GODOLPHIN.  247 

already  closeted  with  an  iutriguing  ambassadress, —  "yes;  I 
have  passed  two  eras  of  life, — the  first  of  romance,  the  second 
of  contemplation;  once  my  favourite  study  was  poetry,  next 
philosophy.  Xow,  returned  to  my  native  country,  rich,  set- 
tled, yet  young,  new  objects  arise  to  me;  not  that  vulgar  and 
troublous  ambition  (which  is  to  make  a  toil  of  life)  that  Con- 
stance suggests,  but  a  more  warm  and  vivid  existence  than 
that  I  have  lately  dreamed  away.  Let  luxury  and  pleasure 
now  be  to  me  what  solitude  and  thought  were.  I  have  been 
too  long  the  solitary,  I  will  learn  to  be  social." 

Agreeably  to  this  resolution,  Godolphin  returned  with  avid- 
ity to  the  enjoyment  of  the  world;  he  found  himself  courted, 
he  courted  society  in  return.  Erpingham  House  had  been  for 
years  the  scene  of  fascination :  who  does  not  recollect  the  yet 
greater  refinement  which  its  new  lord  threw  over  its  circles? 
A  delicate  and  just  conception  of  the  fine  arts  had  ahvays 
characterized  Godolphin.  He  now  formed  that  ardour  for 
collecting,  common  to  the  more  elegant  order  of  minds.  From 
his  beloved  Italy  he  imported  the  most  beautiful  statues ;  his 
cabinets  were  filled  with  gems;  his  walls  glowed  with  the 
triumphs  of  the  canvas ;  the  showy  but  heterogeneous  furni- 
ture of  Erpingham  House  gave  way  to  a  more  classic  and  per- 
fect taste.  The  same  fastidiousness,  which,  in  the  affairs  of 
the  heart,  had  characterized  Godolphin's  habits  and  senti- 
ments, characterized  his  new  pursuits;  the  same  thirst  for 
the  Ideal,  the  same  worship  of  the  Beautiful,  and  aspirations 
after  the  Perfect. 

It  was  not  in  Constance's  nature  to  admit  this  smaller  am- 
bition :  her  taste  was  pure  but  not  minute ;  she  did  not  de- 
scend to  the  philosophy  of  detail.  But  she  was  glad  still  to 
see  that  Godolphin  could  be  aroused  to  the  discovery  of  an 
active  object;  and  although  she  sighed  to  perceive  his  fine 
genius  frittered  away  on  the  trifles  of  the  virtuoso,  although 
she  secretly  regretted  the  waste  of  her  great  wealth  (which 
afforded  to  political  ambition  so  high  an  advantage)  on  the 
mute  marble,  and  what  she  deemed,  nor  unjustly,  frivolous 
curiosities,  she  still  never  interfered  with  Godolphin's  ca- 
prices, conscious  that,  to  his  delicacy,  a  single  objection  to  his 


248  GODOLPHIN. 

wishes  on  the  score  of  expense  would  have  reminded  him  of 
what  she  wished  him  most  to  forget, —  namely,  that  the 
means  of  this  lavish  expenditure  were  derived  from.  her. 
She  hoped  that  his  mind,  once  fairly  awakened,  would  soon 
grow  sated  with  the  acquisition  of  baubles,  and  at  length  sigh 
for  loftier  objects ;  and,  in  the  mean  while,  she  plunged  into 
her  old  party  plots  and  ambitious  intrigues. 

Erpingham  House,  celebrated  as  ever  for  the  beauty  of  its 
queen  and  for  the  political  nature  of  its  entertainments,  re- 
ceived a  new  celebrity  from  its  treasures  of  art  and  the  spir- 
itual wit  and  grace  with  which  Godolphin  invested  its  attrac- 
tions. Among  the  crowd  of  its  guests  there  was  one  whom  its 
owners  more  particularly  esteemed, —  Stainforth  Eadclyffe  was 
still  considerably  under  thirty,  but  already  a  distinguished 
man.  At  school  he  had  been  distinguished,  at  college  distin- 
guished, and  now  in  the  world  of  science  distinguished  also. 
Beneath  a  quiet,  soft,  and  cold  exterior,  he  concealed  the  most 
resolute  and  persevering  ambition ;  and  this  ambition  was  the 
governing  faculty  of  his  soul.  His  energies  were  undistracted 
by  small  objects;  for  he  went  little  into  general  society,  and 
he  especially  sought  in  his  studies  those  pursuits  which  nerve 
and  brace  the  mind.  He  was  a  profound  thinker,  a  deep 
political  economist,  an  accurate  financier,  a  judge  of  the  intri- 
cacies of  morals  and  legislation, —  for  to  his  mere  book  studies 
he  added  an  instinctive  penetration  into  men;  and  when  from 
time  to  time  he  rejoined  the  world,  he  sought  out  those  most 
distinguished  in  the  sciences  he  had  cultivated,  and  by  their 
lights  corrected  his  own.  In  him  there  was  nothing  desultory 
or  undetermined;  his  conduct  was  perpetual  calculation.  He 
did  nothing  but  with  an  eye  to  a  final  object;  and  when,  to 
the  superficial,  he  seemed  most  to  wander  from  the  road  their 
prudence  would  have  suggested,  he  was  only  seeking  the  surest 
and  shortest  paths.  Yet  his  ambition  was  not  the  mere  vul- 
gar thirst  for  getting  on  in  the  world;  he  cared  little  for  the 
paltry  place,  the  petty  power,  which  may  reward  what  are 
called  aspiring  young  men.  His  clear  sight  penetrated  to 
objects  that  seemed  wrapped  in  shade  to  all  others;  and  to 
those   only  —  distant,   but  vast  and  towering  —  he  deigned 


GODOLPHIN.  249 

to  attacli  his  desires.  He  cared  not  for  small  and  momentary 
rewards;  and  while  always  (for  he  knew  its  necessity)  upper- 
most on  the  tide  of  the  hour,  he  had  neither  joy  nor  thought 
for  the  petty  honours  for  which  he  was  envied,  and  by  which 
he  was  supposed  to  be  elated.  Always  occupied  and  always 
thoughtful,  he  went,  as  I  have  just  said,  very  little  into  the 
gay  world,  and  was  not  very  well  formed  to  shine  in  it  when 
there ;  for  trifles  require  the  whole  man  as  much  as  matters 
of  importance.  He  did  not  want  either  wit  or  polish,  but 
he  tasked  his  powers  too  severely  on  great  subjects  not  to  be 
sometimes  dull  upon  small  ones :  yet,  when  he  was  either  ex- 
cited or  at  home,  he  was  not  without  —  what  man  of  genius 
is?  —  his  peculiar  powers  of  conversation.  There  was  in  this 
young,  dark,  brooding,  stern  man  that  which  had  charmed 
Constance  at  first  sight;  she  thought  to  recognize  a  nature 
like  her  own,  and  Eadclyffe's  venturous  spirit  exulted  in  a 
commune  with  hers.  Their  politics  were  the  same;  their  ulti- 
mate ends  not  very  unlike ;  and  their  common  ambition  fur- 
nished them  with  an  eternity  of  topics  and  schemes.  Radclyffe 
was  Constance's  guest;  but  Godolphin  soon  grew  attached  to 
the  young  politician,  though  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  his 
opinions.  In  youth,  Godolphin  had  been  a  Tory;  now,  if 
anything  he  was  a  Tory  still.  Such  a  political  creed  was  per- 
haps the  natural  result  of  his  philosophical  belief.  Con- 
stance, Whig  by  profession,  ultra-Liberal  in  reality,  still 
however  gave  the  character  to  the  politics  of  the  house;  and 
the  easy  Godolphin  thought  politics  the  veriest  of  all  the 
trifles  which  a  man  could  leave  to  the  discretion  of  the  lady 
of  his  household.  We  may  judge,  therefore,  of  the  quiet, 
complacent  amusement  he  felt  in  the  didactics  of  Eadclyffe  or 
the  declamations  of  Constance. 

"That  is  a  dangerous,  scheming  woman,  believe  me,"  said 

the  Duchess  of to  her  great  husband,  one  morning,  when 

Constance  left  her  Grace. 

"^Nonsense!  women  are  never  dangerous." 


250  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER   LI. 

GODOLPHIn's    course   of    life.  —  IXFLUENCE  OF    OPINION   AND 

OF     RIDICULE     ON     THE     MINDS     OF     PRIVILEGED      ORDERS. 

LADY  ERPINGHAM's  FRIENDSHIP  WITH  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH. 
HIS    MANNER    OF    LIVING. 

The  course  of  life  whicli  Godolphin  now  led  was  exactly 
that  which  it  is  natural  for  a  very  rich  intellectual  man  to 
indulge, —  voluptuous  but  refined.  He  was  arriving  at  that 
age  when  the  poetry  of  the  heart  necessarily  decays.  Wealth 
almost  unlimited  was  at  his  command ;  he  had  no  motive  for 
exertion ;  and  he  now  sought  in  pleasure  that  which  he  had 
formerly  asked  from  romance.  As  his  faculties  and  talents 
had  no  other  circle  for  display  than  that  which  "society" 
affords,  so  by  slow  degrees,  society  —  its  applause  and  its  re- 
gard—  became  to  him  of  greater  importance  than  his  "phi- 
losophy dreamt  of."  Whatever  the  circle  we  live  amongst, 
the  public  opinion  of  that  circle  will,  sooner  or  later,  obtain 
a  control  over  us.  This  is  the  reason  why  a  life  of  pleasure 
makes  even  the  strongest  mind  frivolous  at  last.  The  lawyer, 
the  senator,  the  man  of  letters,  all  are  insensibly  guided, 
moulded,  formed,  by  the  judgment  of  the  tribe  they  belong 
to,  and  the  circle  in  which  they  move.  Still  more  is  it  the 
case  with  the  idlers  of  the  great  world,  amongst  whom  the 
only  main  staple  of  talk  is  "themselves." 

And  in  the  last-named  set,  Eidicule  being  more  strong  and 
fearful  a  deity  than  she  is  amongst  the  cultivators  of  the 
graver  occupations  of  life,  reduces  the  inmates,  by  a  constant 
dread  of  incurring  her  displeasure,  to  a  more  monotonous  and 
regular  subjection  to  the  judgment  of  others.  Eidicule  is  the 
stifler  of  all  energy  amongst  those  she  controls.  After  a 
man's  position  in  society  is  once  established,  after  he  has 
arrived  at  a  certain  age,  he  does  not  like  to  hazard  any  intel- 


GODOLPHIN.  251 

lectual  enterprise  which  may  endanger  the  quantum  of  re- 
spect or  popularity  at  present  allotted  to  him.  He  does  not 
like  to  risk  a  failure  in  parliament,  a  caustic  criticism  in 
literature;  he  does  not  like  to  excite  new  jealousies,  and 
provoke  angry  rivals,  where  he  now  finds  complaisant  in- 
feriors. The  most  admired  authors,  the  most  respected 
members  of  either  House,  now  looked  up  to  Godolphin  as  a 
man  of  wit  and  genius, —  a  man  whose  house,  whose  wealth, 
whose  wife,  gave  him  an  influence  few  individuals  enjoy. 
Why  risk  all  this  respect  by  provoking  comparison?  Among 
the  first  in  one  line,  why  sink  into  the  probability  of  being 
second-rate  in  another? 

This  motive,  which  secretly  governs  half  the  aristocracy, — 
the  cleverer  half,  namely,  the  more  diffident  and  the  more 
esteemed,  which  leaves  to  the  obtuse  and  the  vain  a  despised 
and  unenviable  notoriety,  added  new  force  to  Godolphin's 
philosophical  indifference  to  ambition.  Perhaps,  had  his 
situation  been  less  brilliant,  or  had  he  persevered  in  that 
early  affection  for  solitude  which  youth  loves  as  the  best 
nurse  to  its  dreams,  he  might  now,  in  attaining  an  age  when 
ambition,  often  dumb  before,  usually  begins  to  make  itself 
heard,  have  awakened  to  a  more  resolute  and  aspiring  tem- 
perament of  mind.  But  as  it  was,  courted  and  surrounded 
by  all  the  enjoyments  which  are  generally  the  reward  to 
which  exertion  looks,  even  an  ambitious  man  might  have 
forgotten  his  nature.  No  wound  to  his  vanity,  no  feeling 
that  he  was  underrated  (that  great  spur  to  proud  minds), 
excited  him  to  those  exertions  we  undertake  in  order  to  belie 
calumny.  He  was  "the  glass  of  fashion,"  at  once  popular 
and  admired;  and  his  good  fortune  in  marrying  the  cele- 
brated, the  wealthy,  the  beautiful  Countess  of  Erpingham 
was,  as  success  always  is,  considered  the  proof  of  his  genius, 
and  the  token  of  his  merits. 

It  was  certainly  true,  that  a  secret  and  mutual  disappoint- 
ment rankled  beneath  the  brilliant  lot  of  the  husband  and 
wife.  Godolphin  exacted  from  Constance  more  softness, 
more  devotion,  more  compliance,  than  belonged  to  her  nature; 
and  Constance,  on  the  other  hand,  ceased  not  to  repine  that 


252  GODOLPHIN. 

she  found  in  Godolphin  no  sympathy  with  her  objects  and  no 
feeling  for  her  enthusiasm.  As  there  was  little  congenial  in 
their  pursuits,  the  one  living  for  pleasure,  the  other  for  am- 
bition, so  there  could  be  no  congeniality  in  their  intercourse. 
They  loved  each  other  still ;  they  loved  each  other  warmly ; 
they  never  quarrelled,  for  the  temper  of  Constance  was  mild, 
and  that  of  Godolphin  generous :  but  neither  believed  there  was 
much  love  on  the  other  side;  and  both  sought  abroad  that  fel- 
lowship and  those  objects  they  had  not  in  common  at  home. 

Constance  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  reigning  king; 
she  was  constantly  invited  to  the  narrow  circle  of  festivities 
at  Windsor.  Godolphin,  who  avoided  the  being  bored  as  the 
greatest  of  earthly  evils,  could  not  bow  down  his  tastes  and 
habits  to  any  exact  and  precise  order  of  life,  however  distin- 
guished the  circle  in  which  it  became  the  rule.  Thirsting  to 
be  amused,  he  could  not  conjugate  the  active\evh  "to  amuse." 
No  man  was  more  fitted  to  adorn  a  court,  yet  no  man  could 
less  play  the  courtier.  He  admired  the  manners  of  the  sov- 
ereign, he  did  homage  to  the  natural  acuteness  of  his  under- 
standing; but,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  lay  down  the  law  in 
society,  he  was  too  proud  to  receive  it  from  another, —  a  com- 
mon case  among  those  who  live  with  the  great  by  right  and 
not  through  sufferance.  His  pride  made  him  fear  to  seem  a 
parasite ;  and,  too  chivalrous  to  be  disloyal,  he  was  too  haughty 
to  be  subservient.  In  fact,  he  was  thoroughly  formed  to  be  the 
Great  Aristocrat, —  a  career  utterly  distinct  from  that  of  the 
hanger-on  upon  a  still  greater  man;  and  against  his  success  at 
court,  he  had  an  obstacle  no  less  in  the  inherent  fierte  of  his 
nature  than  in  the  acquired  philosophy  of  his  cynicism. 

The  king,  at  first,  was  civil  enough  to  Lady  Erpingham's 
husband.;  but  he  had  penetration  enough  to  see  that  he  was 
not  adequately  admired:  and  on  the  first  demonstration  of 
royal  coolness,  Godolphin,  glad  of  an  excuse,  forswore  Castle 
and  Pavilion  forever,  and  left  Constance  to  enjoy  alone  the 
honours  of  the  regal  hospitality.  The  world  would  have 
insinuated  scandal;  but  there  was  that  about  Constance's 
beauty  which  there  is  said  by  one  of  the  poets  to  belong  to 
an  angel's,— it  struck  the  heart,  but  awed  the  senses. 


GODOLPHIN.  253 


CHAPTER  LII. 

KADCLYFFE   AND    GODOLPHIN    CONVERSE.  —  THE    VARIETIES 
OF   AMBITION. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Godolphin  to  Radclyffe,  as  they  were 
one  day  riding  together  among  the  green  lanes  that  border 
the  metropolis, —  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself  this 
eyening.  Lady  Erpingham  is  gone  to  Windsor;  I  have  no 
dinner  engagement,  and  I  am  wearied  of  balls.  Shall  we 
dine  together,  and  go  to  the  play  quietly,  as  we  might  have 
done  some  ten  years  ago?  " 

"Nothing  I  should  like  better;  and  the  theatre  —  are  you 
fond  of  it  now?  I  think  I  have  heard  you  say  that  it  once 
made  your  favourite  amusement." 

"I  still  like  it  passably,"  answered  Godolphin;  "but  the 
gloss  is  gone  from  the  delusion.  I  am  grown  mournfully 
fastidious.  I  must  have  excellent  acting,  an  excellent  play. 
A  slight  fault,  a  slight  deviation  from  nature,  robs  me  of  my 
content  at  the  whole." 

"  The  same  fault  in  your  character  pervading  all  things, " 
said  Radclyffe,  half  smiling. 

"True,"  said  Godolphin,  yawning;  "but  have  you  seen  my 
new  Canova?  " 

"Xo:  I  care  nothing  for  statues,  and  I  know  nothing  of  the 
Fine  Arts." 

"What  a  confession!  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  rare  confession ;  but  I  suspect  that  the  Arts, 
like  truifies  and  olives,  are  an  acquired  taste.  People  talk 
themselves  into  admiration  where  at  first  they  felt  indiffer- 
ence. But  how  can  you,  Godolphin,  with  your  talents,  fritter 
away  life  on  these  baubles?  " 

"You  are  civil,"  said  Godolphin,  impatiently.  "Allow  me 
to  tell  you  that  it  is  your  objects  /  consider  baubles.     Your 


254  GODOLPHIN. 

dull,  plodding,  wearisome  honours ;  a  name  in  the  newspapers ; 
a  phice,  perhaps,  in  the  ministry,  purchased  by  a  sacrificed 
youth  and  a  degraded  manhood;  a  youth  in  labour,  a  man- 
hood in  schemes.  No,  Radclyffe!  give  me  the  bright,  the  glad 
sparkle  of  existence ;  and  ere  the  sad  years  of  age  and  sick- 
ness, let  me  at  least  enjoy.  That  is  wisdom!  Your  creed 
is  —  But  I  will  not  imitate  your  rudeness !  "  and  Godolphin 
laughed. 

"Certainly,"  replied  Eadclyffe,  ''j^ou  do  your  best  to  enjoy 
yourself.  You  live  well  and  fare  sumptuously ;  your  house  is 
superb,  your  villa  enchanting.  Lady  Erpingham  is  the  hand- 
somest woman  of  her  time;  and,  as  if  that  were  not  enough, 
half  the  fine  women  in  London  admit  you  at  their  feet.  Yet 
you  are  not  happy." 

"Ay;  but  who  is?"  cried  Godolphin,  energetically. 

"  I  am, "  said  Radclyffe,  dryly. 

"You!  humph!" 

"You  disbelieve  me  ?" 

"I  have  no  right  to  do  so:  but  are  you  not  ambitious?  And 
is  not  ambition  full  of  anxiety,  care, —  mortification  at  defeat, 
disappointment  in  success?  Does  not  the  very  word  ambi- 
tion —  that  is,  a  desire  to  be  something  you  are  not  —  prove 
you  discontented  with  what  you  are?  " 

"You  speak  of  a  vulgar  ambition,"  said  Eadclyffe. 

"  Most  august  sage !  —  and  what  species  of  ambition  is 
yours  ?  " 

"  Not  that  which  you  describe.  You  speak  of  the  ambition 
for  self;  my  ambition  is  singular, —  it  is  the  ambition  for 
others.  Some  years  ago  I  chanced  to  form  an  object  in  what 
I  considered  the  welfare  of  my  race.  You  smile.  Nay,  I 
boast  no  virtue  in  my  dream;  but  philanthropy  was  my 
hobby,  as  statues  may  be  yours.  To  effect  this  object,  I  see 
great  changes  are  necessary;  I  desire,  I  work  for  these  great 
changes.  I  am  not  blind,  in  the  meanwhile,  to  glory.  I  de- 
sire, on  the  contrary,  to  obtain  it !  but  it  would  only  please 
me  if  it  came  from  certain  sources.  I  want  to  feel  that  I 
may  realize  what  I  attempt;  and  wish  for  that  glory  that 
comes  from  the  permanent  gratitude  of  my  species,  not  that 


GODOLPHIN.  255 

which  springs  from  the  momentary  applause.  Now,  I  am 
vain,  very  vain:  vanity  was,  some  years  ago,  the  strongest 
characteristic  of  my  nature.  I  do  not  pretend  to  conquer  the 
weakness,  but  to  turn  it  towards  my  purposes.  I  am  vain 
enough  to  wish  to  shine,  but  the  light  must  come  from  deeds 
I  think  really  worthy." 

"Well,  well!"  said  Godolphin,  a  little  interested  in  spite 
of  himself;  " but  ambition  of  one  sort  resembles  ambition  of 
another,  inasmuch  as  it  involves  perpetual  harassments  and 
humiliations." 

"Not  so,"  answered  Eadclyffe;  "because  when  a  man  is 
striving  for  what  he  fancies  a  laudable  object,  the  goodness 
of  his  intentions  comforts  him  for  a  failure  in  success,  whereas 
your  selfishly  ambitious  man  has  no  consolation  in  Jiis  defeats ; 
he  is  humbled  by  the  external  world,  and  has  no  inner  world 
to  apply  to  for  consolation." 

"  0  man !  "  said  Godolphin,  almost  bitterly,  "  how  dost  thou 
eternally  deceive  thyself!  Here  is  the  thirst  for  power,  and 
it  calls  itself  the  love  of  mankind!  " 

"Believe  me,"  said  Radclyffe,  so  earnestly,  and  with  so  deep 
a  meaning  in  his  grave,  bright  eye,  that  Godolphin  was  stag- 
gered from  his  scepticism, —  "believe  me,  they  may  be  dis- 
tinct passions,  and  yet  can  be  united." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

FANNY   BEHIND    THE    SCENES.  REMINISCENCES    OF    YOUTH.  — 

THE     UNIVERSALITY     OF     TRICK.  THE     SUPPER    AT     FANNY 

MILLINGEr's.  TALK    ON    A    THOUSAND    MATTERS,     EQUALLY 

LIGHT    AND    TRUE.  FANNy's    SONG. 

The  play  was  "Pizarro,"  and  Fanny  Millinger  acted  Cora. 
Godolphin  and  Radclyffe  went  behind  the  scenes. 

"Ah,"  said  Fanny,  as  she  stood  in  her  white  Peruvian  dress, 
waiting  her  turn  to  re-enter  the  stage, —  "ah,  Godolphin!  this 
reminds  me  of  old  times.    How  many  years  have  passed  since 


256  GODOLPHIN. 

you  used  to  take  sucli  pleasure  in  this  mimic  life !  "Well  do  I 
remember  your  musing  eye  and  thoughtful  brow  bent  kindly 
on  me  from  the  stage-box  yonder!  and  do  you  recollect  how 
prettily  you  used  to  moralize  on  the  deserted  scenes  when  the 
play  was  over?  And  you  sometimes  waited  on  these  very 
boards  to  escort  me  home.  Those  times  have  changed. 
Heigh-ho!" 

"Ay,  Fanny,  we  have  passed  through  new  worlds  of  feel- 
ing since  then.  Could  life  be  to  us  now  what  it  was  at  that 
time,  we  might  love  each  other  anew.  But  tell  me,  Fanny, 
has  not  the  experience  of  life  made  you  a  wiser  woman?  Do 
you  not  seek  more  to  enjoy  the  present, —  to  pluck  Time's 
fruit  on  the  bough,  ere  yet  the  ripeness  is  gone?  I  do.  I 
dreamed  away  my  youth, —  I  strive  to  enjoy  my  manhood." 

"Then,"  said  Fanny,  with  that  quickness  with  which,  in 
matters  of  the  heart,  women  beat  all  our  philosophy, —  "then 
I  can  prophesy  that,  since  we  parted,  you  have  loved  or  lost 
some  one.  Eegret,  which  converts  the  active  mind  into  the 
dreaming  temper,  makes  the  dreamer  hurry  into  activity, 
whether  of  business  or  of  pleasure." 

"Right,"  said  Radclj^ffe,  as  a  shade  darkened  his  stern 
brow. 

"Eight,"  said  Godolphin,  thoughtfully,  andLucilla's  image 
smote  his  heart  like  an  avenging  conscience.  "Right,"  re- 
peated he,  turning  aside  and  soliloquizing;  "and  those  words 
from  an  idle  tongue  have  taught  me  some  of  the  motives  of 
my  present  conduct.  But  away  reflection!  I  have  resolved 
to  forswear  it.  My  pretty  Cora !  "  said  he  aloud,  as  he  turned 
back  to  the  actress,  "  you  are  a  very  De  Stael  in  your  wisdom : 
but  let  us  not  be  wise ;  't  is  the  worst  of  our  follies.  Do  you 
not  give  us  one  of  your  charming  suppers  to-night?" 

"To  be  sure;  your  friend  will  join  us.  He  was  once  the 
gayest  of  the  gay,  but  years  and  fame  have  altered  him  a 
little." 

"Radclyffe  gay!     Bah!"  said  Godolphin,  surprised. 

"Ay,  you  may  well  look  astonished,"  said  Fanny,  archly; 
"but  note  that  smile, —  it  tells  of  old  days." 

And  Godolphin  turning  to  his  friend  saw  indeed  on  the 


GODOLPHIX.  257 

thin  lip  of  that  earnest  face  a  smile  so  buoyant,  so  joyous, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  character  of  the  man  were 
gone ;  but  while  he  gazed,  the  smile  vanished,  and  Kadclyffe 
gravely  declined  the  invitation. 

Cora  was  now  on  the  stage;  a  transport  of  applause  shook 
the  house. 

"How  well  she  acts!  "  said  Eadclyffe,  warmly. 

"Yes,"  answered  Godolphin,  as  with  folded  arms  he  looked 
quietly  on ;  "  but  what  a  lesson  in  the  human  heart  does  good 
acting  teach  us !  Mark  that  glancing  eye,  that  heaving  breast, 
that  burst  of  passion,  that  agonized  voice :  the  spectators  are 
in  tears!  The  woman's  whole  soul  is  in  her  child!  Not  a 
bit  of  it !  She  feels  no  more  than  the  boards  we  tread  on : 
she  is  probably  thinking  of  the  lively  supper  we  shall  have ; 
and  when  she  comes  off  the  stage,  she  will  cry,  '  Did  I  not 
act  it  well?  ' " 

"Nay,"  said  Radclyffe,  "she  probably  feels  while  she  de- 
picts the  feeling." 

"  Not  she ;  years  ago  she  told  me  the  whole  science  of  acting 
was  trick ;  and  trick  —  trick  —  trick  it  is,  on  the  stage  or  off. 
The  noble  art  of  oratory  —  noble  forsooth !  —  is  just  the  same ; 
philosophy,  poetry, —  all,  all  hypocrisy!     '  Damn  the  moon! ' 

said  B to  me,  as  we  once  stood  gazing  on  it  at  Venice ; 

'  it  always  gives  me  the  ague :  but  I  have  described  it  well  in 
my  poetry,  Godolphin,  eh?  '  " 

"But  —  "  began  Radclyffe. 

"But  me  no  buts,"  interrupted  Godolphin,  with  the  playful 
pertinacitj"-  which  he  made  so  graceful.  "You  are  younger 
than  I  am;  when  you  have  lived  as  long,  you  shall  have  a 
right  to  contradict  my  system, —  not  before." 

Godolphin  joined  the  supper  party.  Like  Godolphin 's, 
Fanny's  life  was  the  pursuit  of  pleasure;  she  lavished  on  it, 
in  proportion  to  her  means,  the  same  cost  and  expense, 
though  she  wanted  the  same  taste  and  refinement.  Generous 
and  profuse,  like  all  her  tribe, —  like  all  persons  who  win 
money  easily, —  she  was  charitable  to  all  and  luxurious  in 
herself.  The  supper  was  attended  by  four  male  guests, — 
Godolphin,  Saville,  Lord  Falconer,  and  Mr.  Windsor. 

17 


258  GODOLPHIX. 

It  was  early  summer;  the  curtains  were  undrawn,  the  win- 
dows were  half  opened,  and  the  moonlight  slept  on  the  little 
grassplot  that  surrounded  the  house.  The  guests  were  in  high 
spirits.  " Fill  me  this  goblet,"  cried  Godolphin;  "champagne 
is  the  boy's  liquor;  I  will  return  to  it  con  amore.  Fanny,  let 
us  pledge  each  other:  stay,  a  toast!     What  shall  it  be?" 

"Hope  till  old  age,  and  Memory  afterwards,"  said  Fanny, 
smiling. 

"Pshaw!  theatricals  still,  Fan?"  growled  Saville,  who  had 
placed  a  large  screen  between  himself  and  the  window;  "no 
sentiment  between  friends." 

"  Out  on  you,  Saville, "  said  GodoliDhin ;  "  as  well  might  you 
say  no  music  out  of  the  opera;  these  verbal  prettinesses  colour 
conversation.  But  you  roues  are  so  d — d  prosaic,  you  want 
us  to  walk  to  Vice  without  a  flower  by  the  way." 

"Vice  indeed!"  cried  Saville.  "I  abjure  your  villanous 
appellatives.  It  was  in  your  companionship  that  I  lost  my 
character,  and  now  you  turn  king's  evidence  against  the  poor 
devil  you  seduced." 

"  Humph !  "  cried  Godolphin,  gayly ;  "  you  remind  me  of 
the  advice  of  the  Spanish  hidalgo  to  a  servant:  always 
choose  a  master  with  a  good  memory;  for  '  if  he  does  not 
pay,  he  will  at  least  remember  that  he  owes  you.'  In  future, 
I  shall  take  care  to  herd  only  with  those  who  recollect,  after 
they  are  finally  debauched,  all  the  good  advice  I  gave  them 
beforehand." 

"  Meanwhile, "  said  the  pretty  Fanny,  with  her  arch  mouth 
half -full  of  chicken,  "I  shall  recollect  that  Mr.  Saville  drinks 
his  wine  without  toasts  —  as  being  a  useless  delay." 

"Wine,"  said  Mr.  Windsor,  sententiously,  "wine  is  just 
the  reverse  of  love.  Your  old  topers  are  all  for  coming  at 
once  to  the  bottle,  and  your  old  lovers  forever  mumbling  the 
toast." 

"  See  what  you  have  brought  on  yourself,  Saville,  by  affect- 
ing a  joke  upon  me,"  said  Godolphin.  "Come,  let  us  make 
it  up ;  we  fell  out  with  the  toast,  let  us  be  reconciled  by  the 
glass.     Champagne?" 

"Ay,  anything  for  a  quiet  life, —  even  champagne,"  said 


GODOLPHIX.  259 

Saville,  with  a  mock  air  of  patience,  and  dropping  his  sharp 
features  into  a  state  of  the  most  placid  repose.  "  You  wits 
are  so  very  severe.  Yes,  champagne,  if  you  please.  Fanny, 
my  love,"  and  Saville  made  a  wry  face  as  he  put  down  the 
scarce-tasted  glass;  "go  on, —  another  joke,  if  you  please;  I 
now  find  I  can  bear  your  satire  better,  at  least,  than  your 
wine." 

Fanny  was  all  bustle;  it  is  in  these  things  that  the  actress 
differs  from  the  lady, —  there  is  no  quiet  in  her.  *' Another 
bottle  of  champagne;  what  can  have  happened  to  this?" 
Poor  Fanny  was  absolutely  pained.  Saville  enjoyed  it,  for 
he  always  revenged  a  jest  by  an  impertinence. 

"Nay,"  said  Godolphin,  "our  friend  does  but  joke.  Your 
champagne  is  excellent,  Fanny.  Well,  Saville,  and  where 
is  young  Greenhough?  He  is  vanished.  Report  says  he 
was  marked  down  in  your  company,  and  has  not  risen 
since." 

"Report  is  the  civilest  jade  in  the  world.  According  to 
her  all  the  pigeons  disappear  in  my  fields.  But,  seriously 
speaking,  Greenhough  is  off  —  gone  to  America,  over  head 
and  ears  in  debt, —  debts  of  honour.  Now,"  said  Saville, 
very  slowly,  "there  's  the  difference  between  the  gentleman 
and  the  parvenu;  the  gentleman,  when  all  is  lost,  cuts  his 
throat :  the  parvenu  only  cuts  his  creditors.  I  am  really  very 
angry  with  Greenhough  that  he  did  not  destroy  himself.  A 
young  man  under  my  protection  and  all;  so  d — d  ungrateful 
in  him." 

"He  was  not  much  in  your  debt,  eh?  "  said  Lord  Falconer, 
speaking  for  the  first  time,  as  the  wine  began  to  get  into  his 
head. 

Saville  looked  hard  at  the  speaker. 

"  Lord  Falconer,  a  pinch  of  snuff :  there  is  something  singu- 
larly happy  in  your  question, —  so  much  to  the  point;  you 
have  great  knowledge  of  the  world, —  great.  He  was  very 
much  in  my  debt.  I  introduced  the  vulgar  dog  into  the 
world,  and  he  owes  me  all  the  thousands  he  had  the  honour 
to  lose  in  good  society!  " 

"Do  you  know,  Percy,"  continued  Saville,  "do  you  know, 


260  GODOLPHIN. 

by  tlie  way,  that  my  poor  dear  friend  Jasmin  is  dead, —  died 
after  a  hearty  game  of  whist?  He  had  just  time  to  cry  '  Youv 
by  honours,'  when  death  trumped  him.  It  was  a  great  shock 
to  me;  he  was  the  second  best  player  at  Graham's.  Those 
sudden  deaths  are  very  awful, —  especially  with  the  game  in 
one's  hands." 

"Very  mortifjdng,  indeed,"  seriously  said  Lord  Falconer, 
who  had  just  been  initiated  into  whist. 

"  'T  is  droll,"  said  Saville,  "to  see  how  often  the  last  words 
of  a  man  tally  with  his  life  ;  't  is  like  the  moral  to  the 
fable.  The  best  instance  I  know  is  in  Lord  Chesterfield, 
whose  fine  soul  went  out  in  that  sublime  and  inimitable 
sentence,  '  Give  Mr.  Darrell  a  chair. '  " 

''Capital,"    cried   Lord   Falconer.       "Saville,    a   game   at 

As  the  lion  in  the  Tower  looked  at  the  lapdog,  so  in 
all  the  compassion  of  contempt  looked  Saville  on  Lord 
Falconer. 

"Infelix  puer!"  muttered  Godolphin;  "infelix  puer  atque 
impar  congressus  Achilli." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Saville  at  last.  "  Yet,  no ;  we  've 
been  talking  of  death  —  such  topics  waken  a  man's  conscience. 
Falconer,  I  never  play  for  less  than  —  " 

"  Ponies !     I  know  it !  "  cried  Falconer,  triumphantly. 

"  Ponies !  less  than  chargers !  " 

"Chargers  —  what  are  chargers?  " 

"The  whole  receipts  of  an  Irish  peer.  Lord  Falconer;  and 
I  make  it  a  point  never  to  lose  the  first  game." 

"Such  men  are  dangerous,"  said  Mr.  Windsor,  with  his 
eyes  shut. 

"0  Night!"  cried  Godolphin,  springing  up  theatrically, 
"  thou  wert  made  for  song,  and  moonlight,  and  laughter  —  but 
woman's  laughter.  Fanny,  a  song,— the  pretty  quaint  song 
you  sang  me,  years  ago,  in  praise  of  a  town  love  and  an  easy 
life." 

Fanny,  who  had  been  in  the  pouts  ever  since  Saville  had 
blamed  the  champagne  —  for  she  was  very  anxious  to  be  of 
Ion  ton  in  her  own  little  way  —  now  began  to  smile  once 


GODOLPHIN.  261 

more;  and  as  the  moon  played  on  her  arch  face,  she  seated 
herself  at  the  piano,  and,  glancing  at  Godolphin,  sang  the 
following  song :  — 


LOVE  COUETS  THE  PLEASURES. 


Believe  me,  Love  was  never  made 

In  deserts  to  abide  ; 
Leave  Age  to  take  the  sober  shade, 

And  Youth  the  sunny  side. 


Love  dozes  by  the  purling  brook, 
No  friend  to  lonely  places  ; 

Or,  if  he  toy  with  Strephon's  crook, 
His  Chloes  are  the  Graces. 


Forsake  "  The  Flaunting  Town  ! "    Alas '. 

Be  cells  for  saints,  my  own  love  ! 
The  wine  of  life 's  a  social  glass, 

Nor  may  be  quafied  alone,  love. 


Behold  the  dead  and  solemn  sea. 
To  which  our  beings  flow ; 

Let  waves  that  soon  so  dark  must  be 
Catch  every  glory  now. 

V. 

I  would  not  chain  that  heart  to  this, 

To  sicken  at  the  rest ; 
The  cage  we  close  a  prison  is, 

The  open  cage  a  nest. 


262  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

THE   CAREER    OF    CONSTANCE.  — REAL   STATE    OF    HER   FEELINGS 

TOWARDS     GODOLPHIN.  RAPID     SUCCESSION    OF     POLITICAL 

EVENTS.  —  canning's    ADMINISTRATION.  —  CATHOLIC    QUES- 
TION. —  LORD    grey's    SPEECH.  —  CANNING's    DEATH. 

While  in  scenes  like  these,  alternated  with  more  refined 
and  polished  dissipation,  Godolphin  lavished  away  his  life, 
Constance  became  more  and  more  powerful  as  one  of  the 
ornaments  of  a  great  political  party.  Few  women  in  Eng- 
land ever  mixed  more  actively  in  politics  than  Lady  Erping- 
ham,  or  with  more  remarkable  ability.  Her  friends  were  out 
of  office,  it  is  true;  but  she  saw  the  time  approaching  rapidly 
when  their  opinions  must  come  into  power.  She  had  begun 
to  love  for  itself  the  scheming  of  political  ambition,  and 
in  any  country  but  England  she  would  have  been  a  conspira- 
tor, and  in  old  times  might  have  risen  to  be  a  queen;  but  as 
it  was,  she  was  only  a  proud,  discontented  woman.  She 
knew,  too,  that  it  was  all  she  could  be, —  all  that  her  sex 
allowed  her  to  be, —  yet  did  she  not  the  less  struggle  and  toil 
on.  The  fate  of  her  father  still  haunted  her;  her  promise 
and  his  death-bed  still  rose  oft  and  solemnly  before  her;  the 
humiliations  she  had  known  in  her  early  condition,  the  hom- 
age that  had  attended  her  later  career,  still  cherished  in  her 
haughty  soul  indignation  at  the  faction  he  had  execrated,  and 
little  less  of  the  mighty  class  which  that  faction  represented. 
That  system  of  "  fashion "  she  had  so  mainly  contributed  to 
strengthen,  and  which  was  originally  by  her  intended  to 
build  up  a  standard  of  opinion,  independent  of  mere  rank 
and  in  defiance  of  mere  wealth,  she  saw  polluted  and  de- 
based, by  the  nature  of  its  followers,  into  a  vulgar  effrontery, 
which  was  worse  than  the  more  quiet  dulness  it  had  attempted 
to  supplant.  Yet  still  she  was  comforted  by  the  thought  that 
through  this  system  lay  the  way  to  more  wholesome  changes. 


GODOLPHIN.  263 

The  idols  of  rank  and  wealth  once  broken,  she  believed  that 
a  pure  and  sane  worship  must  ultimately  be  established. 
Doubtless  in  the  old  French  regime  there  were  many  women 
who  thought  like  her,  but  there  were  none  who  acted  like 
her,  deliberately,  and  with  an  end.  What  an  excellent, 
what  a  warning  picture  is  contained  in  the  entertaining  Me- 
moirs of  Count  Segur!  how  admirably  that  agreeable  gossip 
develops  the  state  of  mind  among  the  nobility  of  France !  — 
"merry  censurers  of  the  old  customs,"  "enchanted  by  the 
philosophy  of  Voltaire,"  "ridiculing  the  old  system,"  "em- 
bracing liberality  as  a  fashion,"  and  "gayly  treading  a  soil 
bedecked  with  ilowers,  which  concealed  a  precipice  from  their 
view!  "  In  England,  there  are  fewer  flowers,  and  the  preci- 
pice will  be  less  fearful. 

A  certain  disappointment  which  had  attended  her  marriage 
with  Grodolphin,  and  the  disdainful  resentment  she  felt  at  the 
pleasures  that  allured  him  from  her,  tended  yet  more  to  deepen 
at  once  her  distaste  for  the  habits  of  a  frivolous  society, 
and  to  nerve  and  concentrate  her  powers  of  political  intrigue. 
Her  mind  grew  more  and  more  masculine;  her  dark  eye 
burned  with  a  sterner  fire;  the  sweet  mouth  was  less  prodigal 
of  its  smiles ;  and  that  air  of  dignity  which  she  had  always 
possessed  grew  harder  in  its  character,  and  became  command. 
This  change  did  not  tend  to  draw  Godolphin  nearer  to  her; 
he,  so  susceptible  to  coldness,  so  refining,  so  exacting,  be- 
lieved fully  that  she  loved  him  no  more,  that  she  repented 
the  marriage  she  had  contracted.  His  pride  was  armed  against 
her ;  and  he  sought  more  eagerly  those  scenes  where  all  for 
the  admired,  the  gallant,  the  sparkling  Godolphin  wore  smiles 
and  sunshine. 

There  was  another  matter  that  rankled  in  his  breast  with 
peculiar  bitterness.  He  had  wished  to  raise  a  large  sum  of 
money  (in  the  purchase  of  some  celebrated  works  of  art), 
which  could  only  be  raised  with  Lady  Erpingham's  consent. 
When  he  had  touched  upon  the  point  to  her,  she  had  not  re- 
fused, but  she  had  hesitated.  She  seemed  embarrassed,  and, 
he  thought,  discontented.  His  delicacy  took  alarm,  and  he 
never  recurred  to  the  question  again;   but  he  was  secretly 


264  GODOLPHIN. 

much  displeased  witli  lier  reluctant  manner  on  that  occasion. 
Nothing  the  proud  so  little  forget  as  a  coolness  conceived 
upon  money  matters.  In  this  instance,  Godolphin  afterwards 
discovered  that  he  had  wronged  Constance,  and  misinter- 
preted the  cause  of  her  reluctance. 

Yet,  as  time  flew  on  for  both,  both  felt  a  yearning  of  the 
heart  towards  each  other;  and  had  they  been  thrown  upon  a 
desert  island,  had  there  been  full  leisure,  full  opportunity, 
for  a  frank,  unfettered  interchange  and  confession  of  thought, 
they  would  have  been  mutually  astonished  to  find  themselves 
still  so  beloved,  and  each  would  have  been  dearer  to  the  other 
than  in  their  warmest  hour  of  earlier  attachment.  But  when 
once  in  a  very  gay  and  occupied  life  a  husband  and  wife  have 
admitted  a  seeming  indifference  to  creep  in  between  them, 
the  chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  against  its  after-removal. 
How  much  more  so  with  a  wife  so  proud  as  Constance  and  a 
husband  so  refining  as  Godolphin!  Fortunately,  however,  as 
I  said  before,  the  temper  of  each  was  excellent;  they  never 
quarrelled;  and  the  indifference,  therefore,  lay  on  the  sur- 
face, not  at  the  depth.  They  seemed  to  the  world  an  affec- 
tionate couple,  as  couples  go;  and  their  union  would  have 
been  classed  by  Rochefoucauld  among  those  marriages  that 
are  very  happy, —  il  n'y  a  point  de  delicieux. 

Meanwhile,  as  Constance  had  predicted,  the  political  his- 
tory of  the  country  was  marked  by  a  perpetual  progress 
towards  liberal  opinions.  Mr.  Canning  was  now  in  office; 
the  Catholic  Question  was  in  every  one's  mouth. 

There  was  a  brilliant  meeting  at  Erpingham  House.  Those 
who  composed  it  were  of  the  heads  of  the  party,  but  there 
were  divisions  amongst  themselves;  some  were  secretly  for 
joining  Mr.  Canning's  administration;  some  had  openly  done 
so ;  others  remained  in  stubborn  and  jealous  opposition.  With 
these  last  was  the  heart  of  Constance. 

"Well,  well.  Lady  Erpingham,"  said  Lord  Paul  Plympton, 
a  young  nobleman,  who  had  written  a  dull  history,  and  was 
therefore  considered  likely  to  succeed  in  parliamentary  life, 
— "  well,  I  cannot  help  thinking  you  are  too  severe  upon 
Canning;  he  is  certainly  very  liberal  in  his  views." 


GODOLPHIN.  265 

"  Is  there  one  law  he  ever  caused  to  pass  for  the  benefit  of 
the  working  classes?  No,  Lord  Paul,  his  Whiggism  is  for 
peers,  and  his  Toryism  for  peasants.  With  the  same  zeal 
he  advocates  the  Catholic  Question  and  the  Manchester 
Massacre." 

"Yet,  surely,"  cried  Lord  Paul,  "you  make  a  difference 
between  the  just  liberality  that  provides  for  property  and 
intelligence,  and  the  dangerous  liberality  that  would  slacken 
the  reins  of  an  ignorant  multitude." 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  a  very  powerful  member  of  the 
Lower  House,  "true  politicians  must  conform  to  circum- 
stances. Canning  may  not  be  all  we  wish,  but  still  he  ought 
to  be  supported.  I  confess  that  I  shall  be  generous:  I  care 
not  for  office,  I  care  not  for  power;  but  Canning  is  surrounded 
with  enemies,  who  are  enemies  also  to  the  people :  for  that 
reason  I  shall  support  him." 

"Bravo,  Benson!"  cried  Lord  Paul. 

"  Bravo,  Benson !  "  echoed  two  or  three  notables,  who  had 
waited  an  opportunity  to  declare  themselves;  "that's  what  I 
call  handsome." 

"Manly!" 

"Fair!" 

"  Disinterested,  by  Jove !  " 

Here  the  Duke  of  Aspindale  suddenly  entered  the  room. 
"Ah,  Lady  Erpingham,  you  should  have  been  in  the  Lords 
to-night:  such  a  speech!     Canning  is  crushed  forever!" 

"  Speech !  from  whom?  " 

"Lord  Grey.  Terrific:  it  was  the  vengeance  of  a  life 
concentrated  into  one  hour;  it  has  shaken  the  ministry 
fearfully. " 

"Humph!"  said  Benson,  rising;  "I  shall  go  to  Brooks's 
and  hear  more." 

"And  I  too,"  said  Lord  Paul. 

A  day  or  two  after,  Benson  in  presenting  a  petition  alluded 
in  terms  of  high  eulogy  to  the  masterly  speech  made  "in 
another  place;"  and  Lord  Paul  Plympton  said,  "It  was  in- 
deed unequalled." 

That 's  what  I  call  handsome. 


266  GODOLPHIN. 

Manly ! 

Fair! 

Disinterested,  by  Jove ! 

And  Canning  died ;  his  gallant  soul  left  the  field  of  politics 
broken  into  a  thousand  petty  parties.  From  the  time  of  his 
death  the  two  great  hosts  into  which  the  strugglers  for  power 
were  divided  have  never  recovered  their  former  strength. 
The  demarcation  that  his  policy  had  tended  to  efface  was 
afterwards  more  weakened  by  his  successor,  the  Duke  of 
Wellington ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  question  of  Eef orm 
that  again  drew  the  stragglers  on  either  side  around  one  de- 
termined banner,  it  is  likely  that  Whig  and  Tory  would, 
among  the  many  minute  sections  and  shades  of  difference, 
have  lost  forever  the  two  broad  distinguishing  colours  of  their 
separate  factions. 

Mr.  Canning  died;  and  now,  with  redoubled  energy,  went 
on  the  wheels  of  political  intrigue.  The  rapid  succession  of 
short-lived  administrations,  the  leisure  of  a  prolonged  peace, 
the  pressure  of  debt,  the  writings  of  philosophers, —  all  in- 
sensibly yet  quickly  excited  that  popular  temperament  which 
found  its  crisis  in  the  Reform  Bill. 


4 


CHAPTEPv   LV. 

THE    DEATH    OF     GEORGE    IV,  THE    POLITICAL    SITUATION    OF 

PARTIES,    AXD    OF    LADY    ERPIXGHAM. 

The  death  of  George  the  Fourth  was  the  birth  of  a  new 
era.  During  the  later  years  of  that  monarch  a  silent  spirit 
had  been  gathering  over  the  land,  which  had  crept  even  to 
the  very  walls  of  his  seclusion.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the 
various  expenses  of  his  reign,  no  longer  consecrated  by  the 
youthful  graces  of  the  prince,  no  longer  disguised  beneath 
the   military  triumphs   of  the  people,    had   contributed   far 


GODOLPHIN".  267 

more  than  theoretical  speculations  to  the  desire  of  political 
change.  The  shortest  road  to  liberty  lies  through  attenuated 
pockets ! 

Constance  was  much  at  Windsor  during  the  king's  last 
illness,  one  of  the  saddest  periods  that  ever  passed  within  the 
walls  of  a  palace.  The  memorialists  of  the  reign  of  the  mag- 
nificent Louis  XIV.  will  best  convey  to  the  reader  a  notion  of 
the  last  days  of  George  the  Fourth.  For,  like  that  great 
king,  he  was  the  representation  m  himself  of  a  particular 
period,  and  he  preserved  much  of  the  habits  of  (and  much  too 
of  the  personal  interest  attached  to)  his  youth,  through  the 
dreary  decline  of  age.  It  was  melancholy  to  see  one  who  had 
played,  not  only  so  exalted,  but  so  gallant  a  part,  breathing 
his  life  away;  nor  was  the  gloom  diminished  by  the  many 
glimpses  of  a  fine  original  nature,  which  broke  forth  amidst 
infirmity  and  disease. 

George  the  Fourth  died;  his  brother  succeeded;  and  the 
English  world  began  to  breathe  more  freely,  to  look  around, 
and  to  feel  that  the  change,  long  coming,  was  come  at  last.  The 
French  Revolution,  the  new  parliament,  Henry  Brougham's 
return  for  Yorkshire,  Mr.  Hume's  return  for  Middlesex,  the 
burst  of  astonished  indignation  at  the  Duke  of  Wellington's 
memorable  words  against  reform,  —  all  betrayed,  while  they 
ripened,  the  signs  of  the  new  age.  The  Whig  ministry  was 
appointed, —  appointed  amidst  discontents  in  the  city,  sus- 
picions amongst  the  friends  of  the  people,  amidst  fires  and 
insurrections  in  the  provinces,  convulsions  abroad,  and  turbu- 
lence at  home. 

The  situation  of  Constance  in  these  changes  was  rather 
curious;  her  intimacy  with  the  late  king  was  no  recommen- 
dation with  the  Whig  government  of  his  successor.  Her 
power,  as  the  power  of  fashion  always  must  in  stormy  times, 
had  received  a  shock;  and  as  she  had  of  late  been  a  little 
divided  from  the  main  body  of  the  Whigs,  she  did  not  share 
at  once  in  their  success,  or  claim  to  be  one  of  their  allies. 
She  remained  silent  and  aloof;  her  parties  were  numerous 
and  splendid  as  ever,  but  the  small  plotting  riunions  of  in- 
triguers were   suspended.     She  hinted  mysteriously  at  the 


268  GODOLPHIN. 

necessity  of  pausing,  to  see  what  reform  the  new  ministers 
would  recommend,  and  what  economy  they  would  effect.  The 
Tories,  especially  the  more  moderate  tribe,  began  to  court 
her;  the  Whigs,  flushed  with  their  triumph,  and  too  busy  to 
think  of  women,  began  to  neglect.  This  last  circumstance 
the  high  Constance  felt  keenly,  but  with  the  keenness  rather 
of  scorn  than  indignation;  years  had  deepened  her  secret  dis- 
gust at  all  aristocratic  ordinances,  and  looking  rather  at  what 
the  Whigs  had  been  than  what,  pressed  by  the  times,  they 
have  become,  she  regarded  them  as  only  playing  with  demo- 
cratic counters  for  aristocratic  rewards.  She  repaid  their 
neglect  with  contempt,  and  the  silent  neutralist  soon  became 
regarded  by  them  as  the  secret  foe. 

But  Constance  was  sufficiently  the  woman  to  feel  mortified 
and  wounded  by  that  which  she  affected  to  despise.  No  post 
at  court  had  been  offered  to  her  by  her  former  friends;  the 
confidant  of  George  the  Fourth  had  ceased  to  be  the  confidant 
of  Lord  Grey.  Arrived  at  that  doubtful  time  of  life  when 
the  beauty,  although  possessing,  is  no  longer  assured  of,  her 
charms,  she  felt  the  decay  of  her  personal  influence  as  a  per- 
sonal affront;  and  thus  vexed,  wounded,  alarmed,  in  her  mid- 
career,  Constance  was  more  than  ever  sensible  of  the  peculiar 
disquietudes  that  await  female  ambition,  and  turned  with 
sighs  more  frequent  than  heretofore  to  the  recollections  of 
that  domestic  love  which  seemed  lost  to  her  forever. 

Mingled  with  the  more  outward  and  visible  stream  of  poli- 
tics there  was,  as  there  ever  is,  a  latent  tide  of  more  theoretic 
and  speculative  opinions.  While  the  practical  politicians 
were  playing  their  momentary  parts,  schemers  and  levellers 
were  propagating  in  all  quarters  doctrines  which  they  fondly 
imagined  were  addressed  to  immortal  ends.  And  Constance 
began  to  turn  with  some  curiosity  to  these  charlatans  or 
sages.  The  bright  countess  listened  to  their  harangues,  pon- 
dered over  their  demonstrations,  and  mused  over  their  hopes. 
But  she  had  lived  too  much  on  the  surface  of  the  actual 
world,  her  habits  of  thought  were  too  essentially  worldly,  to 
be  converted,  while  she  was  attracted,  by  doctrines  so  start- 
ling in  their  ultimate  conclusions.     She  turned  once  more  to 


GODOLPHIX.  269 

herself,  and  waited,  in  a  sad  and  thoughtful  stillness,  the 
progress  of  things,  convinced  only  of  the  vanity  of  them 
all. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

THE   ROUE    HAS    BECOME   A   VALETUDIXARIAX.  —  NEWS.  — 
A    FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Meanwhile  the  graced  Grodolphin  floated  down  the  sunny 
tide  of  his  prosperity.  He  lived  chiefly  with  a  knot  of  epi- 
curean dalliers  with  the  time,  whom  he  had  selected  from  the 
wittiest  and  the  easiest  of  the  London  world.  Dictator  of 
theatres,  patron  of  operas,  oracle  in  music,  mirror  of  enter- 
tainments and  equipage, —  to  these  conditions  had  his  natural 
genius  and  his  once  dreaming  dispositions  been  bowed  at  last! 
A  round  of  dissipation,  however,  left  him  no  time  for  reflec- 
tion ;  and  he  believed  (perhaps  he  was  not  altogether  wrong) 
that  the  best  way  to  preserve  the  happy  equilibrium  of  the 
heart  is  to  blunt  its  susceptibilities.  As  the  most  uneven 
shapes,  when  whirled  into  rapid  and  ceaseless  motion,  will 
appear  a  perfect  circle,  so,  once  impelled  in  a  career  that 
admits  no  pause,  our  life  loses  its  uneven  angles,  and  glides 
on  in  smooth  and  rounded  celerity,  with  false  aspects  more 
symmetrical  than  the  truth. 

One  day  Godolphin  visited  Saville,  who  now,  old,  worn, 
and  fast  waning  to  the  grave,  cropped  the  few  flowers  on  the 
margin,  and  jested,  but  with  sourness,  on  his  own  decay.  He 
found  the  actress  (who  had  also  come  to  visit  the  Man  of 
Pleasure)  sitting  by  the  window,  and  rattling  away  with  her 
usual  vivacity,  while  she  divided  her  attention  with  the 
labours  of  knitting  a  purse. 

"Heaven  only  knows,"  said  Saville,  "what  all  these  times 
will  produce.  I  lose  my  head  in  the  dizzy  quickness  of 
events.  Fanny,  hand  me  my  snuff-box.  Well,  I  fancy  my 
last  hour  is  not  far  distant ;  but  I  hope,  at  least,  I  shall  die  a 


270  GODOLPHIN. 

gentleman.  I  have  a  great  dislike  to  the  thought  of  being 
revolutionized  into  a  roturier.  That 's  the  only  kind  of  revo- 
lution I  have  any  notion  about.  What  do  you  say  to  all  this, 
Godolphin?  Every  one  else  is  turning  politician;  young 
Sunderland  whirls  his  cab  down  to  the  House  at  four  o'clock 
every  day,  dines  at  Bellamy's  on  cold  beef,  and  talks  of  noth- 
ing but  that  d — d  good  speech  of  Sir  Kobert's!  Kevolution! 
faith,  the  revolution  is  come  already.  Eevolutions  only  change 
the  aspect  of  society ;  is  it  not  changed  enough  within  the  last 
six  months?     Bah!     I  suppose  you  are  bit  by  the  mania?  " 

"Not  I!  while  I  live  I  will  abjure  the  vulgar  toil  of  ambi- 
tion. Let  others  rule  or  ruin  the  State;  like  the  Due  de 
Lauzun,  while  the  guillotine  is  preparing,  I  will  think  only 
of  my  oysters  and  my  champagne." 

*'A  noble  creed!  "  said  Fanny,  smiling:  "let  the  world  go 
to  wreck,  and  bring  me  my  biscuit!  That's  Godolphin's 
motto." 

"It  is  life's  motto." 

"Yes  —  a  gentleman's  life." 

"Pish!  Fanny,  no,  satire  from  you, —  you,  who  are  not 
properly  speaking  even  a  tragic  actress !  But  there  is  some- 
thing about  your  profession  sublimely  picturesque  in  the 
midst  of  these  noisy  brawls.  The  storms  of  nations  shake  not 
the  stage;  you  are  rapt  in  another  life;  the  atmosphere  of 
poetry  girds  you.  You  are  like  the  fairies  who  lived  among 
men,  visible  only  at  night,  and  playing  their  fantastic  tricks 
amidst  the  surrounding  passions, —  the  sorrow,  the  crime, 
the  avarice,  the  love,  the  wrath,  the  luxury,-  the  famine,  that 
belong  to  the  grosser  dwellers  of  the  earth.  You  are  to  be 
envied,  Fanny." 

"Not  so;  I  am  growing  old." 

"Old!"  cried  Saville:  "ah,  talk  not  of  it!  Ugh!  Ugh! 
Curse  this  cough!  But  hang  politics;  it  always  brings  dis- 
agreeable reflections.  Glad,  my  old  pupil,  glad  am  I  to  see 
that  you  still  retain  your  august  contempt  for  these  foolish 
stragglers,— insects  splashing  and  panting  in  the  vast  stream 
of  events,  which  they  scarcely  stir,  and  in  which  they  scarcely 
drop  before  they  are  drowned  —  " 


GODOLPHIN.  271 

"Or  tlie  fishes,  their  passions,  devour  them,"  said 
Godolphin. 

"News!"  cried  Saville;  "let  us  have  real  news;  cut  all 
the  politics  out  of  the  '  Times,'  Fanny,  with  your  scissors, 
and  then  read  me  the  rest." 

Fanny  obeyed. 

" '  Fire  in  Marylebone !  '  " 

"That 's  not  news!  skip  that." 

"  'Letter  from  Radical.'  " 

"Stuff!     What  else?" 

"Emigration.     '  No  fewer  than  sixty-eight  —  '  " 

"Hold,  for  mercy's  sake!  What  do  I,  just  going  out  of  the 
world,  care  for  people  only  going  out  of  the  country?  Here, 
child,  give  the  paper  to  Godolphin;  he  knows  exactly  what 
interests  a  man  of  sense." 

"  'Sale  of  Lord  Lysart's  wines  —  '  " 

"  Capital !  "  cried  Saville ;  "  that 's  news ;  that 's  inter- 
esting! " 

Fanny's  pretty  hands  returned  to  their  knitting.  When 
the  wines  had  been  discussed,  the  following  paragraph  was 
chanced  upon : — 

"  There  is  a  foolish  story  going  the  round  of  the  papers  about  Lord 
Grey  and  his  vision  ;  the  vision  is  only  in  the  silly  heads  of  the  inven- 
tors of  the  story,  and  the  ghost  is,  we  suppose,  the  apparition  of  Old 
Sarum.  By  the  way,  there  is  a  celebrated  fortune-teller,  or  prophetess, 
now  in  London,  making  much  noise.  We  conclude  the  discomfited 
Tories  will  next  publish  her  oracular  discourses.  She  is  just  arrived  in 
time  to  predict  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill,  without  any  fear  of  being 
proved  an  impostor." 

"Ah,  by  the  by,"  said  Saville,  "I  hear  wonders  of  this 
sorceress.  She  dreams  and  divines  with  the  most  singular 
accuracy;  and  all  the  old  women  of  both  sexes  flock  to  her 
in  hackney-coaches,  making  fools  of  themselves  to-day  in 
order  to  be  wise  to-morrow.     Have  you  seen  her,  Fanny?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  actress,  very  gravely;  "and,  in  sober 
earnest,  she  has  startled  me.  Her  countenance  is  so  striking, 
her  eyes  so  wild,  and  in  her  conversation  there  is  so  much 


272  GODOLPHIN. 

enthusiasm,  that  she  carries  you  away  in  spite  of  yourself. 
Do  you  believe  in  astrology,  Percy?  " 

"I  almost  did  once,"  said  Godolphin,  with  a  half  sigh; 
"but  does  this  female  seer  profess  to  choose  astrology  in  pref- 
erence to  cards?  The  last  is  the  more  convenient  way  of 
tricking  the  public." 

"Oh,  but  this  is  no  vulgar  fortune-teller,  I  assure  you," 
cried  Fanny,  quite  eagerly :  "  she  dwells  much  on  magnetism ; 
insists  on  the  effect  of  your  own  imagination;  discards  all 
outward  quackeries;  and,  in  short,  has  either  discovered  a 
new  way  of  learning  the  future,  or  revived  some  forgotten 
trick  of  deluding  the  public.  Come  and  see  her  some  day, 
Godolphin." 

"  No,  I  don't  like  that  kind  of  imposture, "  said  Godolphin, 
quickly;  and  turning  away,  he  sank  into  a  silent  and  gloomy 
revery. 


CHAPTEK   LVir. 

SUPEESTITIOX, —  ITS   WONDEEFUL  EFFECTS. 

It  was  perfectly  true  that  there  had  appeared  in  London  a 
person  of  the  female  sex  who,  during  the  last  few  years,  had 
been  much  noted  on  the  Continent  for  the  singular  boldness 
with  which  she  had  promulgated  the  wildest  doctrines,  and 
the  supposed  felicity  which  had  attended  her  vaticinations. 
She  professed  belief  in  all  the  dogmas  that  preceded  the  dawn 
of  modern  philosophy;  and  a  strange,  vivid,  yet  gloomy  elo- 
quence that  pervaded  her  language  gave  effect  to  theories 
which,  while  incomprehensible  to  the  many,  were  alluring  to 
the  few.  None  knew  her  native  country,  although  she  was 
believed  to  come  from  the  North  of  Europe.  Her  way  of  life 
was  lonely,  her  habits  eccentric;  she  sought  no  companion- 
ship; she  was  beautiful,  but  not  of  this  earth's  beauty;  men 
admired,  but  courted  not;  she,  at  least,  lived  apart  from  the 


GODOLPHIN.  273 

reacli  of  human  passions.  In  fact,  the  strange  Liehbur,  for 
such  was  the  name  the  prophetess  was  known  by  (and  she 
assumed  before  it  the  French  title  of  Madame),  was  not  an 
impostor,  but  a  fanatic ;  the  chords  of  the  brain  were  touched, 
and  the  sound  they  gave  back  was  erring  and  imperfect.  She 
was  mad,  but  with  a  certain  method  in  her  madness;  a  cold 
and  preternatural  and  fearful  spirit  abode  within  her,  and 
spoke  from  her  lips ;  its  voice  froze  herself,  and  she  was  more 
awed  by  her  own  oracles  than  her  listeners  themselves. 

In  Vienna  and  in  Paris  her  renown  was  great,  and  even 
terrible.  The  greatest  men  in  those  capitals  had  consulted 
her,  and  spoke  of  her  decrees  with  a  certain  reverence;  her 
insanity  thrilled  them,  and  they  mistook  the  cause.  Besides, 
in  the  main,  she  was  right  in  the  principle  she  addressed: 
she  worked  on  the  imagination,  and  the  imagination  after- 
wards fulfilled  what  she  predicted.  Every  one  knows  what 
dark  things  may  be  done  by  our  own  fantastic  persuasions; 
belief  insures  the  miracles  it  credits.  Men  dream  they  shall 
die  within  a  certain  hour;  the  hour  comes,  and  the  dream  is 
realized.  The  most  potent  wizardries  are  less  potent  than 
fancy  itself.  Macbeth  was  a  murderer,  not  because  the 
witches  predicted,  but  because  their  prediction  aroused  the 
thought  of  murder.  And  this  principle  of  action  the  proph- 
etess knew  well;  she  appealed  to  that  attribute  common  to  us 
all,  the  foolish  and  the  wise,  and  on  that  fruitful  ground  she 
sowed  her  soothsay ings. 

In  London  there  are  always  persons  to  run  after  anything 
new,  and  Madame  Liehbur  became  at  once  the  rage.  I  my- 
self have  seen  a  minister  hurrying  from  her  door  with  his 
cloak  about  his  face ;  and  one  of  the  coldest  of  living  sages 
confesses  that  she  told  him  what  he  believes,  by  mere  human 
means,  she  could  not  have  discovered.  Delusion  all!  But 
what  age  is  free  from  it? 

The  race  of  the  nineteenth  century  boast  their  lights,  but 
run  as  madly  after  any  folly  as  their  fathers  in  the  eighth. 
What  are  the  prophecies  of  Saint  Simon  but  a  species  of 
sorcery?  Why  believe  the  external  more  than  the  inner 
miracle? 

18 


274 


GODOLPHIN. 


There  were  but  a  few  persons  present  at  Lady  Erpingham's, 
and  when  Radclyffe  entered,  Madame  Liehbur  was  the  theme 
of  the  general  conversation.  So  many  anecdotes  were  told, 
so  much  that  was  false  was  mingled  with  so  much  that  seemed 
true,  that  Lady  Erpingham's  curiosity  was  excited,  and  she 
resolved  to  seek  the  modern  Cassandra  with  the  first  oppor- 
tunity. Godolphin  sat  apart  from  the  talkers,  playing  a 
quiet  game  at  ecarte.  Constance's  eyes  stole  ever  and  anon 
to  his  countenance;  and  when  she  turned  at  length  away  with 
a  sigh,  she  saw  that  Radclyffe's  deep  and  inscrutable  gaze 
was  bent  upon  her,  and  the  proud  countess  blushed,  although 
she  scarce  knew  why. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

THE  EMPIRE    OF   TIME   AND   OF  LOVE. THE  PROUD    CONSTANCE 

GROWN   WEARY   AND    HUMBLE.  —  AN    ORDEAL. 


About  this  time  the  fine  constitution  of  Lady  Erpingham 
began  to  feel  the  effects  of  that  life  which,  at  once  idle  and 
busy,  is  the  most  exhausting  of  all.  She  suffered  under  no 
absolute  illness ;  she  was  free  from  actual  pain ;  but  a  fever 
crept  over  her  at  night,  and  a  languid  debility  succeeded  it 
the  next  day.  She  was  melancholy  and  dejected;  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  without  a  cause ;  a  sudden  noise  made  her  trem- 
ble; her  nerves  xoere  shaken, —  terrible  disease,  which  marks 
a  new  epoch  in  life,  which  is  the  first  token  that  our  youth  is 
about  to  leave  us ! 

It  is  in  sickness  that  we  feel  our  true  reliance  on  others, 
especially  if  it  is  of  that  vague  and  not  dangerous  character 
when  those  around  us  are  not  ashamed  or  roused  into  attend- 
ance; when  the  care  and  the  soothing  and  the  vigilance  are 
the  result  of  that  sympathy  which  true  and  deep  love  only 
feels.     This  thought  broke  upon  Constance  as  she  sat  alone 


GODOLPHIN.  275 

one  morning  in  that  mood  when  books  cannot  amuse,  nor 
music  lull,  nor  luxury  soothe, —  the  mood  of  an  aching  mem- 
ory and  a  spiritless  frame.  Above  her,  and  over  the  mantel- 
piece of  her  favourite  room,  hung  that  picture  of  her  father 
which  I  have  before  described;  it  had  been  long  since  re- 
moved from  Wendover  Castle  to  London,  for  Constance  wished 
it  to  be  frequently  in  her  sight.  "  Alas !  "  thought  she,  gaz- 
ing upon  the  proud  and  animated  brow  that  bent  down  upon 
her;  "alas!  though  in  a  different  sphere,  tJuj  lot,  my  father, 
has  been  mine, —  toil  unrepaid,  affection  slighted,  sacrifices 
forgotten ;  a  harder  lot  in  part ;  for  thou  hadst  at  least,  in  thy 
stirring  and  magnificent  career,  continued  excitement  and 
perpetual  triumph.  But  I,  a  woman,  shut  out  by  my  sex 
from  contest,  from  victory,  am  left  only  the  thankless  task 
to  devise  the  rewards  which  others  are  to  enjoy;  the  petty 
plot,  the  poor  intrigue,  the  toil  without  the  honour,  the  hu- 
miliation without  the  revenge.  Yet  have  I  worked  in  thy 
cause,  my  father,  and  thou  —  thou,  couldst  thou  see  my  heart, 
wouldst  pity  and  approve  me." 

As  Constance  turned  away  her  eyes,  they  fell  on  the  op- 
posite mirror,  which  reflected  her  still  lofty  but  dimmed  and 
faded  beauty;  the  worn  cheek,  the  dejected  eye,  those  lines 
and  hollows  which  tell  the  progress  of  years !  There  are  cer- 
tain moments  when  the  time  we  have  been  forgetting  makes 
its  march  suddenly  apparent  to  our  own  pyes,  when  the 
change  we  have  hitherto  marked  not  stares  upon  us  rude  and 
abrupt;  we  almost  fancy  those  lines,  those  wrinkles,  planted 
in  a  single  hour,  so  unperceived  have  they  been  before.  And 
such  a  moment  was  this  to  the  beautiful  Constance;  she 
started  at  her  own  likeness,  and  turned  involuntarily  from 
the  unflattering  mirror.  Beside  it,  on  her  table,  lay  a 
locket,  given  her  by  Godolphin  just  before  they  married, 
and  containing  his  hair;  it  was  a  simple  trifle,  and  the  sim- 
plicity seemed  yet  more  striking  amidst  the  costly  and  mod- 
ern jewels  that  were  scattered  round  it.  As  she  looked  on 
it,  her  heart,  all  woman  still,  flew  back  to  the  day  on  which, 
whispering  eternal  love,  he  hung  it  round  her  neck.  "Ah, 
happy  days!  would  that  they  could  return!  "  sighed  the  deso- 


276  GODOLPHIN. 

late  schemer;  and  she  took  the  locket,  kissed  it,  and  softened 
by  all  the  numberless  recollections  of  the  past,  wept  silently 
over  it.  "And  yet,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  and  wiping  away 
her  tears, —  "and  yet  this  weakness  is  unworthy  of  me. 
Lone,  sad,  ill,  broken  in  frame  and  spirit  as  I  am,  he  comes 
not  near  me ;  I  am  nothing  to  him,  nothing  to  any  one  in  the 
wide  world.  My  heart,  my  heart,  reconcile  thyself  to  thy 
fate !  —  what  thou  hast  been  from  thy  cradle,  that  shalt  thou 
be  to  my  grave.  I  have  not  even  the  tenderness  of  a  child  to 
look  to  —  the  future  is  all  blank !  " 

Constance  was  yet  half  yielding  to,  half  struggling  with, 
these  thoughts,  when  Stainforth  Radclyffe  (to  whom  she  was 
never  denied)  was  suddenly  announced.  Time,  which,  sooner 
or  later,  repays  perseverance,  although  in  a  deceitful  coin, 
had  brought  to  Eadclyffe  a  solid  earnest  of  future  honours. 
His  name  had  risen  high  in  the  science  of  his  country;  it  was 
equally  honoured  by  the  many  and  the  few ;  he  had  become  a 
marked  man,  one  of  whom  all  predicted  a  bright  hereafter. 
He  had  not  yet,  it  is  true,  entered  parliament,  usually  the 
great  arena  in  which  English  reputations  are  won ;  but  it  was 
simply  because  he  had  refused  to  enter  it  under  the  auspices 
of  any  patron,  and  his  political  knowledge,  his  depth  of 
thought,  and  his  stern,  hard,  ambitious  mind  were  not  the 
less  appreciated  and  acknowledged.  Between  him  and  Con- 
stance friendship  had  continued  to  strengthen,  and  the  more 
so  as  their  political  sentiments  were  in  a  great  measure  the 
same,  although  originating  in  different  causes, —  hers  from 
passion,  his  from  reflection. 

Hastily  Constance  turned  aside  her  face,  and  brushed  away 
her  tears,  as  Radclyffe  approached;  and  then  seeming  to  busy 
herself  amongst  some  papers  that  lay  scattered  on  her  escri- 
toire, and  gave  her  an  excuse  for  concealing  in  part  her  coun- 
tenance, she  said,  with  a  constrained  cheerfulness,  "I  am 
happy  you  are  come  to  relieve  my  ennui;  I  have  been  look- 
ing over  letters  written  so  many  years  ago,  that  I  have  been 
forced  to  remember  how  soon  I  shall  cease  to  be  young, —  no 
pleasant  reflection  for  any  one,  much  less  a  woman." 

"I  am  at  a  loss  for  a  compliment  in  return,  as  you  may 


GODOLPHIN.  277 

suppose,"  answered  Eadclyffe;  "but  Lady  Erpingham  de- 
serves a  penance  for  even  hinting  at  the  possibility  of  being 
ever  less  charming  than  she  is;  so  I  shall  hold  my  tongue." 

"Alas!"  said  Constance,  gravely,  "how  little,  save  the 
mere  triumphs  of  youth  and  beauty,  is  left  to  our  sex!  How 
much,  nay,  how  entirely,  in  all  other  and  loftier  objects,  is 
our  ambition  walled  in  and  fettered!  The  human  mind  must 
have  its  aim,  its  aspiring;  how  can  your  sex  blame  us,  then, 
for  being  frivolous,  when  no  aim,  no  aspiring,  save  those  of 
frivolity,  are  granted  us  by  society?" 

"And  is  love  frivolous?"  said  Radclyffe.  "Is  the  empire 
of  the  heart  nothing?  " 

"Yes!"  exclaimed  Constance,  with  energy;  "for  the  em- 
pire never  lasts.  W'e  are  slaves  to  the  empire  we  would 
found;  we  wish  to  be  loved,  but  we  only  succeed  in  loving 
too  well  ourselves.  We  lay  up  our  all  —  our  thoughts,  hopes, 
emotions,  all  the  treasures  of  our  hearts  —  in  one  spot;  and 
when  we  would  retire  from  the  deceits  and  cares  of  life,  we 
find  the  sanctuary  walled  against  us ;  we  love,  and  are  loved 
no  longer!  " 

Constance  had  turned  round  with  the  earnestness  of  the 
feeling  she  expressed;  and  her  eyes,  still  wet  with  tears,  her 
flushed  cheek,  her  quivering  lip,  struck  to  Eadclyffe's  heart 
more  than  her  words.  He  rose  involuntarily;  his  own  agita- 
tion was  marked;  he  moved  several  steps  towards  Constance, 
and  then  checked  the  impulse,  and  muttered  indistinctly  to 
himself. 

"No,"  said  Constance,  mournfully,  and  scarcely  heeding 
him,  "  it  is  in  vain  for  us  to  be  ambitious.  We  only  deceive 
ourselves;  we  are  not  stern  and  harsh  enough  for  the  passion. 
Touch  our  affections,  and  we  are  recalled  at  once  to  the  sense 
of  our  weakness;  and  I — I  —  would  to  God  that  I  were  a 
humble  peasant  girl,  and  not  —  not  what  I  am !  " 

So  saying,  the  lofty  Constance  sank  down,  overpowered 
with  the  bitterness  of  her  feelings,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  Was  Radclyffe  a  man  that  he  could  see  this 
unmoved;  that  he  could  hear  those  beautiful  lips  breathe 
complaints  for  the  want  of  love,  and  not  acknowledge  the 


278  GODOLPHIN. 

love  that  burned  at  his  own  heart?  Long,  secretly,  reso- 
lutely, had  he  struggled  against  the  passion  for  Constance 
which  his  frequent  intercourse  with  her  had  fed,  adid  which 
his  consciousness  that  in  her  was  the  only  parallel  to  himself 
that  he  had  ever  met  with  in  her  sex,  had  first  led  him  to 
form;  and  now  lone,  neglected,  sad,  this  haughty  woman 
wept  over  her  unloved  lot  in  his  presence,  and  still  he  was 
not  at  her  feet !  He  spoke  not,  moved  not,  but  his  breath 
heaved  thick,  and  his  face  was  as  pale  as  death.  He  con- 
quered himself.  All  within  Radclyffe  obeyed  the  idol  he  had 
worshipped,  even  before  Constance;  all  within  him,  if  ardent 
and  fiery,  was  also  high  and  gcQcrous.  The  acuteness  of  his 
reason  permitted  him  no  self -sophistries ;  and  he  would  have 
laid  his  head  on  the  block  rather  than  breathe  a  word  of  that 
love  which  he  knew,  from  the  moment  it  was  confessed,  would 
become  unworthy  of  Constance  and  himself. 

There  was  a  pause.  Lady  Erpingham,  ashamed,  confounded 
at  her  own  weakness,  recovered  herself  slowly  and  in  silence. 
Eadclyffe  at  length  spoke;  and  his  voice,  at  first  trembling 
and  indistinct,  grew,  as  he  proceeded,  clear  and  earnest. 

"Never,"  said  he,  "shall  I  forget  the  confidence  your  emo- 
tions have  testified  in  my  —  my  friendship;  I  am  about  to  de- 
serve it.  Do  not,  my  dear  friend  (let  me  so  call  you),  do  not 
forget  that  life  is  too  short  for  misunderstandings  in  which 
happiness  is  concerned.  You  believe  that  —  that  Godolphin 
does  not  repay  the  affection  you  have  borne  bim:  do  not  be 
angry,  dear  Lady  Erpingham;  I  feel  it  indelicate  in  me  to 
approach  that  subject,  but  my  regard  for  you  emboldens  me. 
I  know  Godolphin's  heart;  he  may  seem  light,  neglectful, 
but  he  loves  you  as  deeply  as  ever, —  he  loves  you  entirely." 

Constance,  humbled  as  she  was,  listened  in  breathless  si- 
lence; her  cheek  burned  with  blushes,  and  those  blushes  were 
at  once  to  Radclyffe  a  torture  and  a  reward. 

"At  this  moment,"  continued  he,  with  constrained  calm- 
ness, "at  this  moment  he  fancies  in  you  that  very  coldness 
you  lament  in  him.  Pardon  me,  Lady  Erpingham;  but  Go- 
dolphin's  nature  is  wayward,  mysterious,  and  exacting.  Have 
you  consulted,  have  you  studied  it  sufficiently?    Note  it  well, 


GODOLPHIX.  279 

soothe  it;  and  if  his  love  can  repay  you,  you  will  be  repaid. 
God  bless  you,  dearest  Lady  Erpingham." 

In  a  moment  more  Radclyffe  had  left  the  apartment. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

COXSTANCE  MAKES  A  DISCOVEKY  THAT  TOUCHES  AND  ENLIGHT- 
ENS HER  AS  TO  GODOLPHIn's  NATURE.  AN  EVENT,  AL- 
THOUGH  IN   PRIVATE    LIFE,    NOT   WITHOUT   ITS    INTEREST. 

If  Constance  most  bitterly  reproached  herself,  or  rather 
her  slackened  nerves,  her  breaking  health,  that  she  had  be- 
fore another  —  that  other  too,  not  of  her  own  sex  —  betrayed 
her  dependence  upon  even  her  husband's  heart  for  happiness; 
if  her  conscience  instantly  took  alarm  at  the  error  (and  it  was 
indeed  a  grave  one)  which  had  revealed  to  any  man  her  do- 
mestic griefs, —  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  she  could  not  control 
the  wild  thrill  of  delight  with  which  she  recalled  those  words 
that  had  so  solemnly  assured  her  she  was  still  beloved  by 
Godolphin.  She  had  a  firm  respect  in  Radclyffe's  penetration 
and  his  sincerity,  and  knew  that  he  was  one  neither  to  de- 
ceive her  nor  be  deceived  himself.  His  advice,  too,  came 
home  to  her.  Had  she,  indeed,  with  sufficient  address,  suffi- 
cient softness,  insinuated  herself  into  Godolphin's  nature? 
Xeglected  herself,  had  she  not  neglected  in  return?  She 
asked  herself  this  question,  and  was  never  weary  of  examin- 
ing her  past  conduct.  That  Eadclyffe,  the  austere  and  chill- 
ing Radclyffe,  entertained  for  her  any  feeling  warmer  than 
friendship,  she  never  for  an  instant  suspected;  that  suspicion 
alone  would  have  driven  him  from  her  presence  forever.  And 
although  there  had  been  a  time,  in  his  bright  and  exulting 
youth,  when  Radclyffe  had  not  been  without  those  arts  which 
win,  in  the  opposite  sex,  affection  from  aversion  itself,  those 
arts  doubled,  ay,  a  hundredfold,  in  their  fascination,  would 


280  GODOLPHIN. 

not  have  availed  him  with  the  pure  but  disappointed  Con- 
stance, even  had  a  sense  of  right  and  wrong  very  different 
from  the  standard  he  now  acknowledged  permitted  him  to  exert 
them.  So  that  his  was  rather  the  sacrifice  of  impulse  than  of 
any  triumph  that  impulse  could  afterwards  have  gained  him. 

Many  and  soft  and  sweet  were  now  the  recollections  of 
Constance.  Her  heart  flew  back  to  her  early  love  among  the 
shades  of  Wendover;  to  the  first  confession  of  the  fair  enthu- 
siastic boy,  when  he  offered  at  her  shrine  a  mind,  a  genius,  a 
heart  capable  of  fruits  which  the  indolence  of  after-life  and 
the  lethargy  of  disappointed  hope  had  blighted  before  their 
time. 

If  he  was  now  so  deaf  to  what  she  considered  the  nobler, 
because  more  stirring,  excitements  of  life,  was  she  not  in 
some  measure  answerable  for  the  supineness?  Had  there  not 
been  a  day  in  which  he  had  vowed  to  toil,  to  labour,  to  sacri- 
fice the  very  character  of  his  mind,  for  a  union  with  her? 
Was  she,  after  all,  was  she  right  to  adhere  so  rigidly  to  her 
father's  dying  words,  and  to  that  vow  afterwards  confirmed 
by  her  own  pride  and  bitterness  of  soul?  She  looked  to  her 
father's  portrait  for  an  answer;  and  that  daring  and  eloquent 
face  seemed,  for  the  first  time,  cold  and  unanswering  to  her 
appeal. 

In  such  meditations  the  hours  passed,  and  midnight  came 
on  without  Constance  having  quitted  her  apartment.  She 
now  summoned  her  woman,  and  inquired  if  Godolphin  was  at 
home.  He  had  come  in  about  an  hour  since,  and,  complain- 
ing of  fatigue,  had  retired  to  rest.  Constance  again  dismissed 
her  maid,  and  stole  to  his  apartment.  He  was  alread}^  asleep; 
his  cheek  rested  on  his  arm,  and  his  fair  hair  fell  wildly  over 
a  brow  that  now  worked  under  the  influence  of  his  dreams. 
Constance  put  the  light  softly  down,  and  seating  herself  be- 
side him,  watched  over  a  sleep  which,  if  it  had  come  sud- 
denly on  him,  was  not  the  less  unquiet  and  disturbed.  At 
length  he  muttered,  "Yes,  Lucilla,  yes;  I  tell  you,  you  are 
avenged.  I  have  not  forgotten  you !  I  have  not  forgotten 
that  I  betrayed,  deserted  you!  but  was  it  my  fault?  Xo,  no! 
Yet  I  have  not  the  less  sought  to  forget  it.     These  poor  ex- 


GODOLPHIN.  281 

cesses,  these  chilling  gayeties, —  were  they  not  incurred  for 
you?     And  now  you  come  —  you  —  ah,  no  —  spare  me !  " 

Shocked  and  startled,  Constance  drew  back.  Here  was  a 
new  key  to  Godolphin's  present  life,  his  dissipation,  his 
thirst  for  pleasure.  Had  he  indeed  sought  to  lull  the  stings 
of  conscience?  And  she,  instead  of  soothing,  of  reconciling 
him  to  the  past,  had  she  left  him  alone  to  struggle  with  bit- 
ter and  unresting  thoughts,  and  to  contrast  the  devotion  of 
the  one  lost  with  the  indifference  of  the  one  gained?  She 
crept  back  to  her  own  chamber,  to  commune  with  her  heart 
and  be  still. 

"My  dear  Percy,"  said  she,  the  next  day,  when  he  care- 
lessly sauntered  into  her  boudoir  before  he  rode  out,  "I  have 
a  favour  to  ask  of  you." 

"  Who  ever  denied  a  favour  to  Lady  Erpingham  ?  " 

"Not  you,  certainly;  but  my  favour  is  a  great  one." 

"It  is  granted." 

"Let  us  pass  the  summer  in shire." 

Godolphin's  brow  grew  clouded. 

"At  Wendover  Castle?  "  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"We  have  never  been  there  since  our  marriage,"  said  Con- 
stance, evasively. 

"Humph!  — as  you  will." 

"It  was  the  place,"  said  Constance,  "where  you,  Percy, 
first  told  me  you  loved!  " 

The  tone  of  his  wife's  voice  struck  on  the  right  chord  in 
Godolphin's  breast;  he  looked  up,  and  saw  her  eyes  full  of 
tears  and  fixed  upon  him. 

"Why,  Constance,"  said  he,  much  affected,  "who  would 
have  thought  that  you  still  cherished  that  remembrance?  " 

"Ah,  when  shall  I  forget  it?"  said  Constance;  'Hhen  you 
loved  me ! " 

"And  was  rejected." 

"Hush!  but  I  believe  now  that  I  was  wrong." 

"  Xo,  Constance ;  you  were  wrong,  for  your  own  happiness, 
that  the  rejection  was  not  renewed." 

"Percy!" 

"  Constance  1 "  and  in  the  accent  of  that  last  word  there  was 


282  GODOLPHIN. 

something  that  encouraged  Constance,  and  she  threw  herself 
into  Godolphin's  arms,  and  murmured, — 

"If  I  have  offended,  forgive  me;  let  us  be  to  each  other 
what  we  once  were." 

Words  like  these  from  the  lips  of  one  in  whom  such  tender 
supplications,  such  feminine  yearnings,  were  not  common, 
subdued  Godolphin  at  once.  He  folded  her  in  his  arms,  and 
kissing  her  passionately,  whispered,  "Be  always  thus,  Con- 
stance, and  you  will  be  more  to  me  than  ever." 


CHAPTEE   LX. 

THE   REFORM    BILL.  A   VERY   SHORT   CHAPTER. 

This  reconciliation  was  not  so  short-lived  as  matters  of  the 
kind  frequently  are.  There  is  a  Chinese  proverb  which  says, 
"  How  near  are  two  hearts  when  there  is  no  deceit  between 
them !  "  And  the  misunderstanding  of  their  mutual  senti- 
ments being  removed,  their  affection  became  at  once  visible 
to  each  other.  And  Constance,  reproaching  herself  for  her 
former  pride,  mingled  in  her  manner  to  her  husband  a  gentle, 
even  a  humble  sweetness,  which,  being  exactly  that  which 
he  had  most  desired  in  her,  was  what  most  attracted  him. 

At  this  time.  Lord  John  Eussell  brought  forward  the  Bill 
of  Parliamentary  Keform.  Lady  Erpingham  was  in  the  lan- 
tern of  the  House  of  Commons  on  that  memorable  night;  like 
every  one  else,  her  feelings  at  first  were  all  absorbed  in  sur- 
prise. She  went  home;  she  hastened  to  Godoli^hin's  library. 
Leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  that  strange  person,  in  the 
midst  of  events  that  stirred  the  destinies  of  Europe,  was 
absorbed  in  the  old  subtleties  of  Spinosa.  In  the  frank  confi- 
dence of  revived  love,  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  told  him  rapidly  that  news  which  was  then  on  its  way  to 
terrify  or  delight  the  whole  of  England. 


GODOLPHIN.  283 

"Will  this  charm  you,  dear  Constance?"  said  he,  kindly; 
"is  it  a  blow  to  the  party  you  hate,  and  I  sympathize 
with  —  or  —  " 

"My  father,"  interrupted  Constance,  passionately,  "would 
to  Heaven  he  had  seen  this  day!  It  was  this  system,  the 
patron  and  the  nominee  system,  that  crushed  and  debased  and 
killed  him.     And  now  I  shall  see  that  system  destroyed!  " 

"So,  then,  my  Constance  will  go  over  to  the  Whigs  in 
earnest?  " 

"Yes,  because  I  shall  meet  there  truth  and  the  people! " 

Godolphin  laughed  gently  at  the  French  exaggeration  of 
the  saying,  and  Constance  forgave  him.  The  fine  ladies  of 
London  were  a  little  divided  as  to  the  merits  of  the  "Bill;  " 
Constance  was  the  first  that  declared  in  its  favour.  She  was 
an  important  ally, —  as  important  at  least  as  a  woman  can  be. 
A  bright  spirit  reigned  in  her  eye;  her  step  grew  more  elastic; 
her  voice  more  glad.  This  was  the  happiest  time  of  her  life, 
—  she  was  happy  in  the  renewal  of  her  love,  happy  in  the 
approaching  triumph  of  her  hate. 


CHAPTER   LXI. 

THE    SOLILOQUY    OF    THE    SOOTHSAYER.  AN    EPISODICAL    MYS- 
TERY,    INTRODUCED    AS    A    TYPE     OF    THE    MANY    THINGS    IN 

LIFE     THAT      ARE     NEVER     ACCOUNTED     FOR.  GRATUITOUS 

DEVIATIONS    FROM   OUR   COMMON    CAREER. 

In  Leicester  Square  there  is  a  dim  old  house,  which  I  have 
but  this  instant  visited,  in  order  to  bring  back  more  vividly 
to  my  recollection  the  wild  and  unhappy  being  who,  for  some 
short  time,  inhabited  its  old-fashioned  and  gloomy  chambers. 

In  that  house,  at  the  time  I  now  speak  of,  lodged  the  mys- 
terious Liehbur.  It  was  late  at  noon,  and  she  sat  alone  in 
her  apartment,  which  was  darkened  so  as  to  exclude  the  broad 
and  peering  sun.  There  was  no  trick  nor  sign  of  the  falla- 
cious art  she  professed  visible  in  the  large  and  melancholy 


284  GODOLPHIN. 

room.  One  or  two  books  in  the  German  language  lay  on  the 
table  beside  which  she  sat;  but  they  were  of  the  recent  poetry, 
and  not  of  the  departed  dogmas,  of  the  genius  of  that  tongue. 
The  enthusiast  was  alone;  and,  with  her  hand  supporting  her 
chin,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  she  seemed  feeding  in 
silence  the  thoughts  that  flitted  to  and  fro  athwart  a  brain 
which  had  for  years  lost  its  certain  guide, —  a  deserted  man- 
sion, whence  the  lord  had  departed,  and  where  spirits  not  of 
this  common  life  had  taken  up  their  haunted  and  desolate 
abode.  And  never  was  there  a  countenance  better  suited  to 
the  character  which  this  singular  woman  had  assumed.  Rich, 
thick,  auburn  hair  was  parted  loosely  over  a  brow  in  which 
the  large  and  full  temples  would  have  betrayed  to  a  phrenolo- 
gist the  great  preponderance  which  the  dreaming  and  the 
imaginative  bore  over  the  sterner  faculties.  Her  eyes  were 
deep,  intense,  but  of  the  bright  and  wandering  glitter  which 
is  so  powerful  in  its  effect  on  the  beholder,  because  it  be- 
tokens that  thought  which  is  not  of  this  daily  world,  and 
inspires  that  fear,  that  sadness,  that  awe,  which  few  have 
looked  on  the  face  of  the  insane  and  not  experienced.  Her 
features  were  still  noble,  and  of  the  fair  Greek  symmetry  of 
the  painter's  Sibyl;  but  the  cheeks  were  worn  and  hollow,  and 
one  bright  spot  alone  broke  their  marble  paleness ;  her  lips 
were,  however,  full,  and  yet  red,  and  by  their  uncertain  and 
varying  play  gave  frequent  glimpses  of  teeth  lustrously  white ; 
which,  while  completing  the  beauty  of  her  face,  aided  —  with 
somewhat  of  a  fearful  effect  —  the  burning  light  of  her  strange 
eyes,  and  the  vague,  mystic  expression  of  her  abrupt  and  un- 
joyous  smile.  You  might  see  when  her  features  were,  as  now, 
in  a  momentary  repose,  that  her  health  was  broken,  and  that 
she  was  not  long  sentenced  to  wander  over  that  world  where 
the  soul  had  already  ceased  to  find  its  home;  but  the  instant 
she  spoke,  her  colour  deepened,  and  the  brilliant  and  rapid 
alternations  of  her  countenance  deceived  the  eye,  and  con- 
cealed the  ravages  of  the  worm  that  preyed  within. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  at  last  breaking  silence,  and  soliloquizing 
in  the  English  tongue,  but  with  somewhat  of  a  foreign  accent; 
"  yes,  I  am  in  his  city ;  within  a  few  paces  of  his  home ;  I 


GODOLPHIX.  285 

have  seen  him,  I  have  heard  him.  Night  after  night,  in 
rain,  and  in  the  teeth  of  the  biting  winds,  I  have  wandered 
round  his  home.  Ay !  and  I  could  have  raised  my  voice,  and 
shrieked  a  warning  and  a  prophecy,  that  should  have  startled 
him  from  his  sleep  as  the  trumpet  of  the  last  angel!  but  I 
hushed  the  sound  within  my  soul,  and  covered  the  vision 
with  a  thick  silence.  0  God!  what  have  I  seen  and  felt  and 
known,  since  he  last  saw  me !  But  we  shall  meet  again ;  and 
ere  the  year  has  rolled  round,  I  shall  feel  the  touch  of  his 
lips  and  die!  Die!  what  calmness,  what  luxury  in  the  word! 
The  fiery  burthen  of  this  dread  knowledge  I  have  heaped  upon 
me  shuffled  off;  memory  no  more;  the  past,  the  present,  the 
future  exorcised;  and  a  long  sleep,  with  bright  dreams  of  a 
lulling  sky,  and  a  silver  voice,  and  his  presence !  " 

The  door  opened,  and  a  black  girl  of  about  ten  years  old, 
in  the  costume  of  her  Moorish  tribe,  announced  the  arrival  of 
a  new  visitor.  The  countenance  of  Madame  Liehbur  changed 
at  once  into  an  expression  of  cold  and  settled  calmness ;  she 
ordered  the  visitor  to  be  admitted;  and  presently  Stainforth 
Eadclyffe  entered  the  room. 

"Thou  mistakest  me  and  my  lore,"  said  the  diviner;  "I 
meddle  not  with  the  tricks  and  schemes  of  the  worldly;  I 
show  the  truth,  not  garble  it." 

"Pshaw!"  said  Radclyffe,  impatiently;  "this  jargon  can- 
not deceive  me.  You  exhibit  your  skill  for  money.  I  ask 
one  exertion  of  it,  and  desire  you  to  name  your  reward.  Let 
us  talk  after  the  fashion  of  this  world,  and  leave  that  of  the 
other  to  our  dupes," 
"Yet  thou  has  known  grief  too,"  said  the  diviner,  musingly, 
"  and  those  who  have  sorrowed  ought  to  judge  more  gently  of 
each  other.  Wilt  thou  try  my  art  on  thyself,  ere  thou  askest 
it  for  others?  " 

"Ay,  if  you  could  restore  the  dead  to  my  dreams." 

"I  can!  "  replied  the  soothsayer,  sternly. 

Eadclyffe  laughed  bitterly.  "Away  with  this  talk  to  me; 
or,  if  you  would  convince  me,  raise  at  once  the  spectre  I  de- 
sire to  see ! " 


286  GODOLPHIN. 

"And  dost  thou  think,  vain  man,"  replied  Liehbur,  haugh- 
tily, "that  I  pretend  to  the  power  thou  speakest  of?  Yes; 
but  not  as  the  impostors  of  old  (dull  and  gross,  appealing  to 
outward  spells,  and  spells  wrought  by  themselves  alone)  af- 
fected to  do.  I  can  bring  the  dead  before  thee,  but  thou  thy- 
self must  act  upon  thyself." 

"Mummery!     What  would  you  drive  at?  " 

"Wilt  thou  fast  three  days,  and  for  three  nights  abstain 
from  sleep,  and  then  visit  me  once  again?  " 

"No,  fair  deluder;  such  a  preliminary  is  too  much  to  ask 
of  a  Neophyte.  Three  days  without  food,  and  three  nights 
without  sleep!  Why,  you  would  have  to  raise  myself  from 
the  dead!" 

"And  canst  thou,"  said  the  diviner,  with  great  dignity, 
"  canst  thou  hope  that  thou  wouldst  be  worthy  of  a  revelation 
from  a  higher  world,  that  for  thee  the  keys  of  the  grave 
should  unlock  their  awful  treasure,  and  the  dead  return  to 
life,  when  thou  scruplest  to  mortify  thy  flesh  and  loosen  the 
earthly  bonds  that  cumber  and  chain  the  spirit?  I  tell  thee 
that  only  as  the  soul  detaches  itself  from  the  frame,  can  its 
inner  and  purer  sense  awaken,  and  the  full  consciousness  of 
the  invisible  and  divine  things  that  surround  it  descend  upon 
its  powers." 

"And  what,"  said  Radclyffe,  startled  more  by  the  counte- 
nance and  voice  than  the  words  themselves  of  the  soothsayer, 
—  "what  would  you  then  do,  supposing  that  I  perform  this 
penance  ? " 

"Awaken  to  their  utmost  sense,  even  to  pain  and  torture, 
the  naked  nerves  of  that  Great  Power  thou  callest  the  imagi- 
K'ATiON", —  that  Power  which  presides  over  dreams  and  visions; 
which  kindles  song,  and  lives  in  the  Heart  of  Melodies ;  which 
inspired  the  Magian  of  the  East  and  the  Pythian  voices,  and 
in  the  storms  and  thunder  of  savage  lands  originated  the  no- 
tion of  a  God  and  the  seeds  of  human  worship ;  that  vast  pre- 
siding Power  which,  to  the  things  of  mind,  is  what  the  Deity 
is  to  the  Universe  itself,  —  the  creator  of  all.  I  would  awaken, 
I  say,  that  Power  from  its  customary  sleep  where,  buried  in 
the  heart,  it  folds  its  wings,  and  lives  but  by  fits  and  starts. 


GODOLPIIIN.  287 

unquiet,  but  unaroused;  and  by  that  Power  thou  wouldst  see, 
and  feel,  and  know,  and  through  it  only  thou  wouldst  exist. 
So  that  it  would  be  with  thee  as  if  the  body  were  not, —  as  if 
thou  wert  already  all-spiritual,  all-living.  So  thou  wouldst 
learn  in  life  that  which  may  be  open  to  thee  after  death ;  and 
so,  soul  might  now,  as  hereafter,  converse  with  soul,  and  re- 
voke the  Past,  and  sail  prescient  down  the  dark  tides  of  the 
Future.  A  brief  and  fleeting  privilege,  but  dearly  purchased : 
be  wise,  and  disbelieve  in  itj  be  happy,  and  reject  it!  " 

Eadclylfe  was  impressed,  despite  himself,  by  the  solemn 
novelty  of  this  language,  and  the  deep  mournfulness  with 
which  the  soothsayer's  last  sentence  died  away. 

"And  how,"  said  he,  after  a  pause, —  "how,  and  by  what 
arts,  would  you  so  awaken  the  imaginative  faculty?" 

"Ask  not  until  the  time  comes  for  the  trial,"  answered 
Liehbur. 

"  But  can  you  awaken  it  in  all, —  the  dull,  the  unideal,  as 
in  the  musing  and  exalted?  " 

"No!  but  the  dull  and  unideal  will  not  go  through  the  ne- 
cessary ordeal.  Few  besides  those  for  whom  fate  casts  her 
great  parts  in  life's  drama  ever  come  to  that  point  when  I  can 
teach  them  the  Future." 

"Do  you  mean  that  your  chief  votaries  are  among  the  great? 
Pardon  me,  I  should  have  thought  the  most  superstitious  are 
to  be  found  among  the  most  ignorant  and  lowly." 

"  Yes ;  but  they  consult  only  what  imposes  on  their  credu- 
lity, without  demanding  stern  and  severe  sacrifice  of  time  and 
enjoyment,  as  T  do.  The  daring,  the  resolute,  the  scheming, 
with  their  souls  intent  upon  great  objects  and  high  dreams, — 
those  are  the  men  who  despise  the  charms  of  the  moment, 
who  are  covetous  of  piercing  the  far  future,  who  know  how 
much  of  their  hitherward  career  has  been  brightened,  not  by 
genius  or  nature,  but  some  strange  confluence  of  events,  some 
mysterious  agency  of  fate.  The  great  are  always  fortunate, 
and  therefore  mostly  seekers  into  the  decrees  of  fortune." 

So  great  is  the  influence  which  enthusiasm,  right  or  wrong, 
always  exercises  over  us,  that  even  the  hard  and  acute  Ead- 
clylfe —  who  had  entered  the  room  with  the  most  profound 


288  GODOLPIIIN. 

contempt  for  the  pretensions  of  the  soothsayer,  and  partly 
from  a  wish  to  find  materials  for  ridiculing  a  folly  of  the 
day,  partly,  it  may  be  from  the  desire  to  examine  which  be- 
longed to  his  nature  —  began  to  consider  in  his  own  mind 
whether  he  should  yield  to  his  curiosity,  now  strongly  ex- 
cited, and  pledge  himself  to  the  preliminary  penance  the 
diviner  had  ordained. 

The  soothsayer  continued, — 

"The  stars  and  the  clime  and  the  changing  moon  have 
power  over  us, —  why  not?  Do  they  not  have  influence  over 
the  rest  of  Nature?  But  we  can  only  unravel  their  more  au- 
gust and  hidden  secrets  by  giving  full  wing  to  the  creative 
spirit  which  first  taught  us  their  elementary  nature,  and 
which,  when  released  from  earth,  will  have  full  range  to  wan- 
der over  their  brilliant  fields.  Know,  in  one  word,  the  Im- 
agination and  the  Soul  are  one, —  one  indivisible  and  the 
same;  on  that  truth  rests  all  my  lore." 

"  And  if  I  followed  your  precepts,  what  other  preliminaries 
would  you  enjoin?  " 

"Not  until  thou  engagest  to  perform  them,  will  I  tell  thee 
more." 

"  I  engage !  " 

"And  swear?" 

"  I  swear !  " 

The  soothsayer  rose  —  and  — 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

IN"  WHICH  THE  COMMON  LIFE  GLIDES  INTO  THE  STRANGE,  

EQUALLY  TRUE,  BUT  THE  TRUTH  NOT  EQUALLY  ACKNOWL- 
EDGED. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  this  interview  that  Constance,  com- 
ing into  Godolphin's  room,  found  him  leaning  against  the 
wall,    pale  and  agitated  and   almost    insensible.      "Percy, 


GODOLPHIN.  289 

Percy,  you  are  ill!"  she  exclaimed,  and  wound  her  arms 
round  his  neck.  He  looked  at  her  long  and  wistfully, 
breathing  hard  all  the  time,  until  at  length  he  seemed  slowly 
to  recover  his  self-possession,  and  seating  himself,  motioned 
Constance  to  do  the  same.  After  a  pause,  he  said,  clasping 
her  hand, — 

"Listen  to  me,  Constance.  My  health,  I  fear,  is  breaking; 
I  am  tormented  by  fearful  visions ;  I  am  possessed  by  some 
magic  influence.  For  several  nights  successively,  before  fall- 
ing asleep,  a  cold  tremor  has  gradually  pervaded  my  frame; 
the  roots  of  my  hair  stand  on  end;  my  teeth  chatter;  a  vague 
horror  seizes  me;  my  blood  seems  turned  to  a  solid  substance, 
so  curdled  and  stagnant  is  it.  I  strive  to  speak,  to  cry  out, 
but  my  voice  clings  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth ;  I  feel  that  I 
have  no  longer  power  over  myself.  Suddenly,  and  in  the 
very  midst  of  this  agony,  I  fall  into  a  heavy  sleep ;  then  come 
strange  bewildering  dreams,  with  Volktman's  daughter  for- 
ever presiding  over  them;  but  with  a  changed  countenance, 
calm,  unutterably  calm,  and  gazing  on  me  with  eyes  that 
burn  into  my  soul.  The  dream  fades,  I  wake  with  the  morn- 
ing, but  exhausted  and  enfeebled.  I  have  consulted  physi- 
cians; I  have  taken  drugs;  but  I  cannot  break  the  spell, — the 
previous  horror  and  the  after-dreams.  And  just  now,  Con- 
stance, just  now  —  you  see  the  window  is  open  to  the  park, 
the  gate  of  the  garden  is  unclosed ;  I  happened  to  lift  my  eyes, 
and  lo!  gazing  upon  me  in  the  sickly  moonlight,  was  the  coun- 
tenance of  my  dreams, —  Lucilla's,  but  how  altered !  Merciful 
Heaven !  is  it  a  mockery,  or  can  the  living  Lucilla  really  be 
in  England?  And  have  these  visions,  these  terrors,  been  part 
of  that  mysterious  sympathy  which  united  us  ever,  and  which 
her  father  predicted  should  cease  but  with  our  lives?  " 

The  emotions  of  Godolphin  were  so  rarely  visible,  and  in 
the  present  instance  they  were  so  unaffected  and  so  roused, 
that  Constance  could  not  summon  courage  to  soothe,  to  cheer 
him ;  she  herself  was  alarmed  and  shocked,  and  glanced  fear- 
fully towards  the  window,  lest  the  apparition  he  had  spoken 
of  should  reappear.  All  without  was  still ;  not  a  leaf  stirred 
on  the  trees  in  the  Mall;  no  human  figure  Avas  to  be  seen. 

19 


290  GODOLPIIIX. 

She  turned  again  to  Godolphin,  and  kissed  the  drops  from  his 
brow,  and  pressed  his  cheek  to  her  bosom. 

"I  have  a  presentiment,"  said  he,  "that  something  dread- 
ful will  happen  shortly.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  near  some  great 
crisis  of  my  life,  and  as  if  I  were  about  to  step  from  the 
bright  and  palpable  world  into  regions  of  cloud  and  darkness. 
Constance,  strange  misgivings  as  to  my  choice  in  my  past  life 
haunt  and  perplex  me.  I  have  sought  only  the  present;  I 
have  abjured  all  toil,  all  ambition,  and  laughed  at  the  future; 
my  hand  has  plucked  the  rose-leaves,  and  now  they  lie  with- 
ered in  the  grasp.  My  youth  flies  me,  age  scowls  on  me  from 
the  distance, —  an  age  of  frivolities  that  I  once  scorned;  yet 
—  yet,  had  I  formed  a  different  creed,  how  much  I  might 
have  done!  But  —  but,  out  on  this  cant!  My  nerves  are 
shattered,  and  I  prate  nonsense.  Lend  me  your  arm,  Con- 
stance; let  us  go  into  the  saloon,  and  send  for  music!" 

And  all  that  night  Constance  watched  by  the  side  of  Godol- 
phin,  and  marked  in  mute  terror  the  convulsions  that  wrung 
his  sleep,  the  foam  that  gathered  to  his  lip,  the  cries  that 
broke  from  his  tongue.  But  she  was  rewarded  when,  with 
the  gray  dawn,  he  awoke,  and,  catching  her  tender  and  tear- 
ful gaze,  flung  himself  upon  her  bosom,  and  bade  God  bless 
her  for  her  love! 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

A   MEETIXG   BETWEEN    COXSTANCE   AND    THE   PROPHETESS. 

A  STRANGE  suspicion  had  entered  Constance's  mind,  and 
for  Godolphin's  sake  she  resolved  to  put  it  to  the  proof.  She 
drew  her  mantle  round  her  stately  figure,  put  on  a  large  dis- 
guising bonnet,  and  repaired  to  Madame  Liehbur's  house. 

The  Moorish  girl  opened  the  door  to  the  countess;  and  her 
strange  dress,  her  African  hue  and  features,  relieved  by  the 


GODOLPHIX.  291 

long,  glittering  pendants  in  her  ears,  while  they  seemed 
suited  to  the  eccentric  reputation  of  her  mistress,  brought  a 
slight  smile  to  the  proud  lip  of  Lady  Erpingham,  as  she  con- 
ceived them  a  part  of  the  charlatanism  practised  by  the  sooth- 
sayer. The  girl  only  replied  to  Lady  Erpingham's  question 
by  an  intelligent  sign;  and  running  lightly  up  the  stairs, 
conducted  the  guest  into  an  anteroom,  where  she  waited  but 
for  a  few  moments  before  she  was  admitted  into  Madame 
Liehbur's  apa,rtment. 

The  effect  that  the  personal  beauty  of  the  diviner  always 
produced  on  those  who  beheld  her  was  not  less  powerful  than 
usual  on  the  surprised  and  admiring  gaze  of  Lady  Erpingham. 
She  bowed  her  haughty  brow  with  involuntary  respect,  and 
took  the  seat  to  which  the  enthusiast  beckoned. 

"And  what,  lady,"  said  the  soothsayer,  in  the  foreign 
music  of  her  low  voice, —  "  what  brings  thee  hither?  Wouldst 
thou  gain,  or  hast  thou  lost,  that  gift  our  poor  sex  prizes  so 
dearly  beyond  its  value?  Is  it  of  love  that  thou  wouldst 
speak  to  the  interpreter  of  dreams  and  the  priestess  of  the 
things  to  come?  " 

While  the  bright-eyed  Liehbur  thus  spoke,  the  countess 
examined  through  her  veil  the  fair  face  before  her,  comparing 
it  with  that  description  which  Godolphin  had  given  her  of  the 
sculptor's  daughter,  and  her  suspicion  acquired  new  strength, 

"I  seek  not  that  which  you  allude  to,"  said  Constance; 
"but  of  the  future,  although  without  any  definite  object,  I 
would  indeed  like  to  question  you.  All  of  us  love  to  pry  into 
dark  recesses  hid  from  our  view,  and  over  which  you  profess 
the  empire." 

"Your  voice  is  sweet,  but  commanding,"  said  the  oracle; 
"and  your  air  is  stately,  as  of  one  born  in  courts.  Lift  your 
veil,  that  I  may  gaze  upon  your  face,  and  tell  by  its  lines  the 
fate  your  character  has  shaped  for  you." 

"Alas!"  answered  Constance,  "life  betrays  few  of  its  past 
signs  by  outward  token.  If  you  have  no  wiser  art  than  that 
drawn  from  the  lines  and  features  of  our  countenances,  I 
shall  still  remain  what  I  am  now, —  an  unbeliever  in  your 
powers." 


292  GODOLPHIN. 

"  The  brow  and  the  lip  and  the  eye  and  the  expression  of 
each  and  all,"  answered  Liehbur,  "are  not  the  lying  index 
you  suppose  them." 

"Then,"  rejoined  Constance,  "by  those  signs  will  I  read 
yoLir  own  destiny,  as  you  would  read  mine." 

The  sibyl  started,  and  waved  her  hand  impatiently  j  but 
Constance  proceeded, — 

"Your  birth,  despite  your  fair  locks,  was  under  a  southern 
sky;  you  were  nursed  in  the  delusions  you  now  teach;  you 
were  loved,  and  left  alone ;  you  are  in  the  country  of  your 
lover.     Is  it  not  so, — am  I  not  an  oracle  in  my  turn?" 

The  mysterious  Liehbur  fell  back  in  her  chair,  her  lips 
apart  and  blanched,  her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
visitant. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  cried  at  last,  in  a  shrill  tone;  "who, 
of  my  own  sex,  knows  my  wretched  history?  Speak,  speak! 
in  mercy  speak!  tell  me  more!  convince  me  that  3'ou  have 
but  vainly  guessed  my  secret,  or  that  you  have  a  right  to 
know  it!  " 

"  Did  not  your  father  forsake,  for  the  blue  skies  of  Eome, 
his  own  colder  shores?  "  continued  Constance,  adopting  the 
heightened  and  romantic  tone  of  the  one  she  addressed;  "and, 
Percy  Godolphin  —  is  that  name  still  familiar  to  the  ear  of 
Lucilla  Volktman?" 

A  loud,  long  shriek  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  soothsayer, 
and  she  sank  at  once  lifeless  on  the  ground.  Greatly  alarmed, 
and  repenting  her  own  abruptness,  Constance  hastened  to  her 
assistance.  She  lifted  the  poor  being,  whom  she  uncon- 
sciously had  once  contributed  so  deeply  to  injure,  from  the 
ground;  she  loosened  her  dress,  and  perceived  that  around 
her  neck  hung  a  broad  ivory  necklace  wrought  with  curious 
characters,  and  many  uncouth  forms  and  symbols.  This  evi- 
dence that,  if  deluding  others,  the  soothsayer  deluded  herself 
also,  touched  and  affected  the  countess;  and  while  she  was 
still  busy  in  chafing  the  temples  of  Lucilla,  the  Moor,  brought 
to  the  spot  by  that  sudden  sliriek,  entered  the  apartment. 
She  seemed  surprised  and  terrified  at  her  mistress's  condition, 
and  poured  forth,  in  some  tongue  unknown  to  Constance,  what 


GODOLPHIX.  293 

seemed  to  her  a  volley  of  mingled  reproach  and  lamentation. 
She  seized  Lady  Erpingham's  hand,  dashed  it  indignantly 
away,  and,  supporting  herself  the  ashen  cheek  of  Lucilla, 
motioned  to  Lady  Erpingham  to  depart;  but  Constance,  not 
easily  accustomed  to  obey,  retained  her  position  beside  the 
still  insensible  Lucilla;  and  now,  by  slow  degrees,  and  with 
quick  and  heavy  sighs,  the  unfortunate  daughter  of  Volktman 
returned  to  life  and  consciousness. 

In  assisting  Lucilla,  the  countess  had  thrown  aside  her 
veil,  and  the  eyes  of  the  soothsayer  opened  upon  that  superb 
beauty,  which  once  to  see  was  never  to  forget.  Involun- 
tarily she  again  closed  her  eyes,  and  groaned  audibly;  and 
then,  summoning  all  her  courage,  she  withdrew  her  hand 
from  Constance's  clasp,  and  bade  her  Moorish  handmaid  leave 
them  once  more  alone. 

"  So,  then, "  said  Lucilla,  after  a  pause,  "  it  is  Percy  Godol- 
phin's  wife,  his  English  wife,  who  has  come  to  gaze  on  the 
fallen,  the  degraded  Lucilla;  and  yet,"  sinking  her  voice  into 
a  tone  of  ineffable  and  plaintive  sweetness  —  "yet  I  have 
slept  on  his  bosom,  and  been  dear  and  sacred  to  him  as  thou ! 
Go,  proud  lady,  go !  —  leave  me  to  my  mad  and  sunken  and 
solitary  state.     Go!  " 

"Dear  Lucilla!  "  said  Constance,  kindly,  and  striving  once 
more  to  take  her  hand,  "  do  not  cast  me  away  from  you.  I 
have  long  sympathized  with  your  generous  although  erring 
heart, —  your  hard  and  bitter  misfortunes.  Look  on  me  only 
as  your  friend, —  nay,  your  sister,  if  you  will.  Let  me  per- 
suade you  to  leave  this  strange  and  desultory  life;  choose 
your  own  home:  I  am  rich  to  overflowing;  all  you  can  desire 
shall  be  at  your  command.  He  shall  not  know  more  of  you 
unless  (to  assuage  the  remorse  that  the  memory  of  you  does, 
I  know,  still  occasion  him)  you  will  suffer  him  to  learn,  from 
your  own  hand,  that  you  are  well  and  at  ease,  and  that  you 
do  not  revoke  j^our  former  pardon.  Come,  dear  Lucilla!  " 
and  the  arm  of  the  generous  and  bright-souled  Constance 
gently  wound  round  the  feeble  frame  of  Lucilla,  who  now, 
reclining  back,  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"Come,  give  me  the  deep,  the  grateful  joy  of  thinking  I 


294  GODOLPHIN. 

can  minister  to  your  future  comforts.  I  was  the  cause  of  all 
your  wretchedness ;  but  for  me,  Godolphin  would  have  been 
yours  forever,  —  would  probably,  by  marriage,  have  redressed 
your  wrongs;  but  for  me  you  would  not  have  wandered  an 
outcast  over  the  inhospitable  world.  Let  me  in  something 
repair  what  I  have  cost  you.     Speak  to  me,  Lucilla!  " 

"Yes,  I  will  speak  to  you,"  said  poor  Lucilla,  throwing 
herself  on  the  ground,  and  clasping  with  grateful  warmth  the 
knees  of  her  gentle  soother ;  "  for  long,  long  years  —  I  dare 
not  think  how  many  —  I  have  not  heard  the  voice  of  kindness 
fall  upon  my  ear.  Among  strange  faces  and  harsh  tongues 
hath  my  lot  been  cast;  and  if  I  have  wrought  out  from  the 
dreams  of  my  young  hours  the  course  of  this  life  (which  you 
contemn,  but  not  justly),  it  has  been  that  I  may  stand  alone 
and  not  dependent, — feared  and  not  despised.  And  now  you, 
you  whom  I  admire  and  envy,  and  would  reverence  more  than 
living  woman  (for  he  loves  you  and  deems  you  worthy  of 
him), —  you,  lady,  speak  to  me  as  a  sister  would  speak,  and 
—  and  —  "  Here  sobs  interrupted  Lucilla's  speech;  and  Con- 
stance herself,  almost  equally  affected,  and  finding  it  vain  to 
attempt  to  raise  her,  knelt  by  her  side,  and  tenderly  caress- 
ing her,  sought  to  comfort  her,  even  while  she  wept  in 
doing  so. 

And  this  was  a  beautiful  passage  in  the  life  of  the  lofty 
Constance.  Xever  did  she  seem  more  noble  than  when,  thus 
lowly  and  humbling  herself,  she  knelt  beside  the  poor  victim 
of  her  husband's  love,  and  whispered  to  the  diseased  and 
withering  heart  tidings  of  comfort,  charity,  home,  and  a 
futurity  of  honour  and  of  peace.  But  this  was  not  a  dream 
that  could  long  lull  the  perturbed  and  erring  brain  of  Lucilla 
Volktman;  and  when  she  recovered,  in  some  measure,  her 
self-possession,  she  rose,  and  throwing  back  the  wild  hair 
from  her  throbbing  temples,  she  said,  in  a  calm  and  mournful 
voice, — 

"Your  kindness  comes  too  late.  I  am  dying  fast, —  fast. 
All  that  is  left  to  me  in  the  world  are  these  very  visions,  this 
very  power  —  call  it  delusion  if  you  will  —  from  which  you 
would  tear  me.     Nay,  look  not  so  reproachfully,  and  in  such 


GODOLPHIK  295 

wonder.  Do  you  not  know  that  men  have  in  poverty,  sick- 
ness, and  all  outer  despair  clung  to  a  creative  spirit  within  — 
a  world  peopled  with  delusions  —  and  called  it  poetry;  and 
that  gift  has  been  more  precious  to  them  than  all  that  wealth 
and  pomp  could  bestow?  So,"  continued  Lucilla,  with  fervid 
and  insane  enthusiasm,  "so  is  this,  my  creative  spirit,  my 
imaginary  world,  my  inspiration,  what  poetry  may  be  to 
others.  I  may  be  mistaken  in  the  truth  of  my  belief.  There 
are  times  when  my  brain  is  cool,  and  my  frame  at  rest,  and  I 
sit  alone  and  think  over  the  real  past,  when  I  feel  my  trust 
shaken,  and  my  ardour  damped;  but  that  thought  does  not 
console  but  torture  me,  and  I  hasten  to  plunge  once  more 
among  the  charms  and  spells  and  mighty  dreams  that  wrap 
me  from  my  living  self.  Oh,  lady!  bright  and  beautiful  and 
lofty  as  you  are,  there  may  come  a  time  when  you  can  con- 
ceive that  even  madness  may  be  a  relief.  For  "  (and  here  the 
wandering  light  burned  brighter  in  the  enthusiast's  glowing 
eyes),  "for,  when  the  night  is  round  us,  and  there  is  peace 
on  earth,  and  the  world's  children  sleep,  it  is  a  wild  joy  to 
sit  alone  and  vigilant,  and  forget  that  we  live  and  are 
wretched.  The  stars  speak  to  us  then  with  a  wondrous  and 
stirring  voice ;  they  tell  us  of  the  doom  of  men  and  the  wreck 
of  empires,  and  prophesy  of  the  far  events  which  they  taught 
to  the  old  Chaldeans.  And  then  the  Winds,  walking  to  and 
fro  as  they  list,  bid  us  go  forth  with  them  and  hear  the  songs 
of  the  midnight  spirits;  for  you  know,"  she  whispered  with  a 
smile,  putting  her  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the  appalled  and 
shrinking  Constance,  who  now  saw  how  hopeless  was  the 
ministry  she  had  undertaken,  "  that  this  world  is  given  up  to 
two  tribes  of  things  that  live  and  have  a  soul, —  the  one 
bodily  and  palpable  as  we  are ;  the  other  more  glorious,  but 
invisible  to  our  dull  sight  —  though  I  have  seen  them, — 
Dread  Solemn  Shadows,  even  in  their  mirth;  the  night  is 
their  season  as  the  day  is  ours;  they  march  in  the  moon- 
beams, and  are  borne  upon  the  wings  of  the  winds.  And 
with  them,  and  by  their  thoughts,  I  raise  myself  from  what 
I  am  and  have  been.  Ah,  lady,  wouldst  thou  take  this  com- 
fort from  me?" 


296  GODOLPHIN. 

"But,"  said  Constance,  gathering  courage  from  the  gentle- 
ness which  Lucilla's  insanity  now  wore,  and  trying  to  soothe, 
not  contradict  her  in  her  present  vein,  "  but  in  the  country, 
Lucilla,  in  some  quiet  and  sheltered  nook,  you  might  indulge 
these  visions  without  the  cares  and  uncertainty  that  must  now 
perplex  you;  without  leading  this  dangerous  and  roving  life, 
which  must  at  times  expose  you  to  insult,  to  annoyance,  and 
discontent  you  with  yourself." 

"You  are  mistaken,  lady,"  said  the  astrologer,  proudly; 
"none  know  me  who  do  not  fear.  I  am  powerful,  and  I  hug 
my  power, —  it  comforts  me;  without  it,  what  should  I  be, — 
an  abject,  forsaken,  miserable  woman.  No!  that  power  I 
possess, —  to  shake  men's  secret  souls,  — even  if  it  be  a  deceit; 
even  if  I  should  laugh  at  them,  not  pity,  —  reconciles  me  to 
myself  and  to  the  past.  And  I  am  not  poor,  madam,"  as, 
with  the  common  caprice  of  her  infirmity,  an  angry  suspicion 
seemed  to  cross  her;  "I  want  no  one's  charity, —  I  have 
learned  to  maintain  myself.  Nay,  I  could  be  even  wealthy 
if  I  would!" 

"And,"  said  Constance,  seeing  that  for  the  present  she 
must  postpone  her  benevolent  intentions, "  and  he  —  Godolphin 
—  you  forgive  him  still?  " 

At  that  name,  it  was  as  if  a  sudden  charm  had  been  whis- 
pered to  the  fevered  heart  of  the  poor  fanatic ;  her  head  sank 
from  its  proud  bearing;  a  deep,  a  soft  blush  coloured  the  wan 
cheek;  her  arms  drooped  beside  her;  she  trembled  violently, 
and,  after  a  moment's  silence,  sank  again  on  her  seat,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "Ah,"  said  she,  softly, 
"  that  word  brings  me  back  to  my  young  days,  when  I  asked 
no  power  but  what  love  gave  me  over  one  heart;  it  brings  me 
back  to  the  blue  Italian  lake,  and  the  waving  pines,  and  our 
solitary  home,  and  my  babe's  distant  grave.  Tell  me,"  she 
cried,  again  starting  up,  "has  he  not  spoken  of  me  lately, — 
has  he  not  seen  me  in  his  dreams;  have  I  not  been  present  to 
his  soul  when  the  frame,  torpid  and  locked,  severed  us  no 
more,  and  in  the  still  hours  I  charmed  myself  to  his  gaze? 
Tell  me,  has  he  not  owned  that  Lucilla  haunted  his  pillow? 
Tell  me;  and  if  I  err,  my  spells  are  nothing,  my  power  is 


GODOLPHIX.  297 

vanity,  and  I  am  tlie  helpless  creature  thou  wouldst  believe 
me!" 

Despite  her  reason  and  her  firm  sense,  Constance  half  shud- 
dered at  these  mysterious  words,  as  she  recalled  what  Percy 
had  told  her  of  his  dreams  the  preceding  evening,  and  the 
emotions  she  herself  had  witnessed  in  his  slumbers  when  she 
watched  beside  his  bed.  She  remained  silent,  and  Lucilla 
regarded  her  countenance  with  a  sort  of  triumph. 

''  My  art,  then,  is  not  so  idle  as  thou  wouldst  hold  it.     But 

—  hush !  —  last  night  I  beheld  him,  not  in  spirit,  but  visibly, 
face  to  face;  for  I  wander  at  times  before  his  home  (his  home 
was  once  mine!),  and  he  saw  me,  and  was  smitten  with  fear; 
in  these  worn  features  he  could  recognize  not  the  living 
Lucilla  he  had  known.  But  go  to  him !  —  thou,  his  wife,  his 
own  —  go  to  him;  tell  him  —  no,  tell  him  not  of  me.  He 
must  not  seek  me;  we  must  not  hold  parley  together:  for  oh, 
lady"  (and  Lucilla's  face  became  settled  into  an  expression 
so  sad,  so  unearthly  sad,  that  no  word  can  paint,  no  heart 
conceive,  its  utter  and  solemn  sorrow),  "when  we  two  meet 
again  to  commune,  to  converse,  when  once  more  I  touch  that 
hand,  when  once  more  T  feel  that  beloved,  that  balmy  breath, 

—  m7/  last  hour  is  at  hand,  and  danger  —  imminent,  dark, 
and  deadly  danger  —  clings  fast  to  him/" 

As  she  spoke,  Lucilla  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  some 
horrid  vision  from  her  gaze;  and  Constance  looked  fearfully 
round,  almost  expecting  some  apparition  at  hand.  Presently 
Lucilla,  moving  silently  across  the  room,  beckoned  to  the 
countess  to  follow :  she  did  so.  They  entered  another  apart- 
ment; before  a  recess  there  hung  a  black  curtain.  Lucilla 
drew  it  slowly  aside,  and  Constance  turned  her  eyes  from  a 
dazzling  light  that  broke  upon  them.  "When  she  again  looked, 
she  beheld  a  sort  of  glass  dial  marked  with  various  quaint 
hieroglyphics  and  the  figures  of  angels,  beautifully  wrought; 
but  around  the  dial,  which  was  circular,  were  ranged  many 
stars,  and  the  planets,  set  in  due  order.  These  were  lighted 
from  within  by  some  chemical  process,  and  burned  with  a 
clear  and  lustrous,  but  silver  light.  And  Constance  observed 
that  the  dial  turned  round,  and  that  the  stars  turned  with  it, 


298  GODOLPHIN. 

each  in  a  separate  motion;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  dial  were 
the  hands  as  of  a  clock,  that  moved,  but  so  slowly,  that  the 
most  patient  gaze  alone  could  observe  the  motion.    - 

While  the  wondering  Constance  regarded  this  singular  de- 
vice, Lucilla  pointed  to  one  star  that  burned  brighter  than 
the  rest;  and  below  it,  half-way  down  the  dial,  was  another, 
a  faint  and  sickly  orb,  that,  when  watched,  seemed  to  per- 
form a  much  more  rapid  and  irregular  course  than  its 
fellows. 

"The  bright  star  is  his,"  said  she;  "and  yon  dim  and  dy- 
ing one  is  the  type  of  mine.  Xote:  in  the  course  they  both 
pursue  they  must  meet  at  last;  and  when  they  meet,  the 
mechanism  of  the  whole  halts,  —  the  work  of  the  dial  is  for- 
ever done.  These  hands  indicate  hourly  the  progress  made  to 
that  end;  for  it  is  the  mimicry  and  symbol  of  mine.  Thus 
do  I  number  the  days  of  my  fate;  thus  do  I  know,  even  al- 
most to  a  second,  the  period  in  which  I  shall  join  my  Father 
that  is  in  heaven! 

"And  now,"  continued  the  maniac  (though  maniac  is  too 
harsh  and  decided  a  word  for  the  dreaming  wildness  of 
Lucilla's  insanity),  as,  dropping  the  curtain,  she  took  her 
guest's  hand  and  conducted  her  back  into  the  outer  room, — 
"and  now,  farewell!  You  sought  me,  and,  I  feel,  only  from 
kind  and  generous  motives.  We  never  shall  meet  more. 
Tell  not  your  husband  that  you  have  seen  me.  He  will 
know  soon,  too  soon,  of  my  existence.  Fain  would  I 
spare  him  that  pang  and,"  growing  pale  as  she  spoke,  "that 
peril;  but  Fate  forbids  it.  What  is  writ,  is  writ;  and  who 
shall  blot  God's  sentence  from  the  stars,  which  are  His  book? 
Farewell!  high  thoughts  are  graved  upon  your  brow:  may 
they  bless  you;  or,  where  they  fail  to  bless,  may  they  console 
and  support.  Farewell !  I  have  not  yet  forgotten  to  be  grate- 
ful, and  I  still  dare  to  pray." 

Thus  saying,  Lucilla  kissed  the  hand  she  had  held,  and 
turning  hastily  away,  regained  the  room  she  had  just  left; 
and,  locking  the  door,  left  the  stunned  and  bewildered  coun- 
tess to  depart  from  the  melancholy  abode.  With  faltering 
steps  she  quitted  the  chamber,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 


GODOLPHIX.  299 

the  little  Moor  awaited  her.  To  her  excited  fancy  there  was 
something  eldrich  and  preternatural  in  the  gaze  of  the  young 
African,  and  the  grin  of  her  pearly  teeth,  as  she  opened  the 
door  to  the  visitant.  Hastening  to  her  carriage,  which  she 
had  left  at  a  corner  of  the  square,  the  countess  rejoiced  when 
she  gained  it;  and  throwing  herself  back  on  the  luxurious 
cushions,  felt  as  exhausted  by  this  starry  and  weird  incident 
in  the  epic  of  life's  common  career,  as  if  she  had  partaken  of 
that  overpowering  inspiration  which  she  now  almost  incredu- 
lously asked  herself,  as  she  looked  forth  on  the  broad  day  and 
the  busy  streets,  if  she  had  really  witnessed. 


CHAPTER   LXIV. 

LUCILLA's  flight.  —  THE  PERPLEXITY  OF  LADY  EEPINGHAM. 
A  CHAXGE  COMES  O^TIE  GODOLPHIx's  MIXD.  HIS  CON- 
VERSATION   WITH    RADCLYFFE.  GENERAL   ELECTION.  GO" 

DOLPHIN    BECOMES    A    SENATOR. 

No  human  heart  ever  beat  with  more  pure  and  generous 
emotions,  when  freed  from  the  political  fever  that  burned 
within  her  (withering,  for  the  moment,  the  chastened  and 
wholesome  impulses  of  her  nature),  than  those  which  ani- 
mated the  heart  of  the  queenly  Constance.  She  sent  that 
evening  for  the  most  celebrated  physician  in  London, — that 
polished  and  courtly  man  who  seems  born  for  the  maladies  of 
the  drawing-room,  but  who  beneath  so  urbane  a  demeanour 
conceals  so  accurate  and  profound  a  knowledge  of  the  dis- 
orders of  his  unfortunate  race.  I  say  accurate  and  profound 
comparatively,  for  positive  knowledge  of  pathology  is  what 
no  physician  in  modern  times  and  civilized  countries  really 
possesses.  No  man  cures  us, —  the  highest  art  is  not  to  kill! 
Constance,  then,  sent  for  this  physician,  and,  as  delicately  as 
possible,  related  the  unfortunate  state  of  Lucilla,  and  the 
deep  anxiety  she  felt  for  her  mental  and  bodily  relief.     The 


300  GODOLPHIN. 

physician  promised  to  call  the  next  day;  he  did  so,  late  in 
the  afternoon:  Lucilla  was  gone.  Strange,  self-willed,  mys- 
terious, she  came  like  a  dream,  to  warn,  to  terrify,  and  to  de- 
part. They  knew  not  whither  she  had  fled,  and  her  Moorish 
handmaid  alone  attended  her. 

Constance  was  deeply  chagrined  at  this  intelligence;  for 
she  had  already  begun  to  build  castles  in  the  air,  which  poor 
Lucilla,  with  a  frame  restored  and  a  heart  at  ease  and  nothing 
left  of  the  past  but  a  soft  and  holy  penitence,  should  inhabit. 
The  countess,  however,  consoled  herself  with  the  hope  that 
Lucilla  would  at  least  write  to  her,  and  mention  her  new  place 
of  residence;  but  days  passed,  and  no  letter  came. 

Constance  felt  that  her  benevolent  intentions  were  doomed 
to  be  unfulfilled.  She  was  now  greatly  perplexed  whether 
or  not  to  relate  to  Godolphin  the  interview  that  had  taken 
place  between  her  and  Lucilla.  She  knew  the  deep,  morbid, 
and  painful  interest  which  the  memory  of  this  wild  and  vis- 
ionary creature  created  in  Godolphin;  and  she  trembled  at 
the  feeling  she  might  re-awaken  by  even  a  faint  picture  of 
the  condition  and  mental  infirmities  of  her  whose  life  he  had 
so  darkly  shadowed.  She  resolved,  therefore,  at  all  events 
for  the  present,  and  until  every  hope  of  discovering  Lucilla 
once  more  had  expired,  to  conceal  the  meeting  that  had  oc- 
curred. And  in  this  resolve,  she  was  strengthened  by  per- 
ceiving that  Godolphin's  mind  had  become  gradually  calmed 
from  its  late  excitement,  and  that  he  had  begun  to  consider, 
or  at  least  appeared  to  consider,  the  apparition  of  Lucilla  at 
his  window  as  the  mere  delusion  of  a  heated  imagination. 
His  nights  grew  once  more  tranquil,  and  freed  from  the  dark 
dreams  that  had  tormented  his  brain;  and  even  the  cool  and 
unimaginative  Constance  could  scarcely  divest  herself  of  the 
wild  fancy  that,  when  Lucilla  was  near,  a  secret  and  preter- 
natural sympathy  between  Godolphin  and  the  reader  of  the 
stars  had  produced  that  influence  over  his  nightly  dreams 
which  paled  and  receded  and  vanished,  as  Lucilla  departed 
from  the  actual  circle  in  which  he  lived. 

It  was  at  this  time,  too,  that  a  change  was  perceptible  in 
Godolphin's  habits,  and  crept  gradually  over  the  character  of 


GODOLPHm.  301 

his  thoughts.  Dissipation  ceased  to  allure  him,  the  light  wit 
of  his  parasites  palled  upon  his  ear;  magnificence  had  lost  its 
gloss,  and  the  same  fastidious,  exacting  thirst  for  the  ideal 
which  had  disappointed  him  in  the  better  objects  of  life,  be- 
gan now  to  discontent  him  with  its  glittering  pleasures. 

The  change  was  natural  and  the  causes  not  difficult  to 
fathom.  The  fact  was,  that  Godolphin  had  now  arrived  at 
that  period  of  existence  when  a  man's  character  is  almost  in- 
variably subject  to  great  change, —  the  crisis  in  life's  fever, 
when  there  is  a  new  turn  in  our  fate,  and  our  moral  death  or 
regeneration  is  sealed  by  the  silent  wavering  or  the  solemn 
decision  of  the  hour.  Arrived  at  the  confines  of  middle  age, 
there  is  an  outward  innovation  in  the  whole  system;  un- 
looked-for symptoms  break  forth  in  the  bodily,  unlooked-for 
symptoms  in  the  mental,  frame.  It  happened  to  Godolphin 
that,  at  this  critical  period,  a  chance,  a  circumstance,  a  straw, 
had  reunited  his  long  interrupted  but  never  stifled  affections 
to  the  image  of  his  beautiful  Constance.  The  reign  of  pas- 
sion, the  magic  of  those  sweet  illusions,  that  ineffable  yearn- 
ing which  possession  mocks,  although  it  quells  at  last,  were 
indeed  forever  over;  but  a  friendship  more  soft  and  genial 
than  exists  in  any  relation  save  that  of  husband  and  wife  had 
sprung  up,  almost  as  by  a  miracle  (so  sudden  was  it),  between 
breasts  for  years  divided.  And  the  experience  of  those  years 
had  taught  Godolphin  how  frail  and  unsubstantial  had  been 
all  the  other  ties  he  had  formed.  He  wondered,  as  sitting 
alone  with  Constance,  her  tenderness  recalled  the  past,  her  wit 
enlivened  the  present,  and  Ms  imagination  still  shed  a  glory 
and  a  loveliness  over  the  future,  that  he  had  been  so  long 
insensible  to  the  blessings  of  that  communion  which  he  now 
experienced.  He  did  not  perceive  what  in  fact  was  the  case, 
—  that  the  tastes  and  sympathies  of  each,  blunted  by  that 
disappointment  which  is  the  child  of  experience,  were  more 
willing  to  concede  somewhat  to  the  tastes  and  sympathies  of 
the  other;  that  Constance  gave  a  more  indulgent  listening  to 
his  beautiful  refinements  of  an  ideal  and  false  epicurism; 
that  he,  smiling  still,  smiled  with  kindness,  not  with  scorn, 
at  the  sanguine  politics,  the  worldly  schemes,  and  the  rank- 


302  GODOLPHIX. 

ling  memories  of  the  intriguing  Constance.  Fortunately,  too, 
for  her,  the  times  were  such,  that  men  who  never  before 
dreamed  of  political  interference  were  roused  and  urged  into 
the  mighty  conflux  of  battling  interests,  which  left  few  mod- 
erate and  none  neuter.  Every  coterie  resounded  with  political 
war-cries;  every  dinner  rang,  from  soup  to  the  coffee,  with 
the  merits  of  the  Bill;  wherever  Godolphin  turned  for  refuge, 
Eeform  still  assailed  him;  and  by  degrees  the  universal  feel- 
ing, that  was  at  first  ridiculed,  was  at  last,  although  reluc- 
tantly, admitted  by  his  mind. 

"Why,"  said  he,  one  da}^,  musingly,  to  Eadclyffe,  whom 
he  met  in  the  old  Green  Park, —  for  since  the  conversation 
recorded  between  Eadclyffe  and  Constance  the  former  came 
little  to  Erpingham  House, —  "why  should  I  not  try  a  yet 
wwtried  experiment?  Why  should  I  not  live  like  others  in 
their  graver  as  in  their  lighter  pursuits?  I  confess,  when  I 
look  back  to  the  years  I  have  spent  in  England,  I  feel  that  I 
calculated  erroneously.  I  chalked  out  a  plan,  I  have  followed 
it  rigidly.  I  have  lived^for  self,  for  pleasure,  for  luxury;  I 
have  summoned  wit,  beauty,  even  wisdom  around  me.  I  have 
been  the  creator  of  a  magic  circle,  but  to  the  magician  him- 
self the  magic  was  tame  and  ignoble.  In  short,  I  have 
dreamed,  and  am  awake.  Yet  what  course  of  life  should 
supply  this,  which  I  think  of  deserting?  Shall  I  go  once 
more  abroad,  and  penetrate  some  untravelled  corner  of  the 
earth?  Shall  I  retire  into  the  country,  and  tcrite,  draining 
my  mind  of  the  excitement  that  presses  on  it;  or  lastly,  shall 
I  plunge  with  my  contemporaries  into  the  great  gulf  of  actual 
events,  and  strive  and  fret  and  struggle;  or  —  in  short,  Ead- 
clyffe, you  are  a  wise  man:  advise  me!  " 

"  Alas !  "  answered  Eadclyffe,  "  it  is  of  no  use  advising  one 
to  be  happy  who  has  no  object  beyond  himself.  Either  en- 
thusiasm or  utter  mechanical  coldness  is  necessary  to  recon- 
cile men  to  the  cares  and  mortifications  of  life.  You  must 
feel  nothing,  or  you  must  feel  for  others.  Unite  yourself  to 
a  great  object;  see  its  goal  distinctly;  cling  to  its  course 
courageously;  hope  for  its  triumph  sanguinely;  and  on  its 
majestic  progress  you  sail,  as  in  a  ship,  agitated  indeed  by 


GODOLPHIX.  303 

the  storms,  but  unheeding  the  breeze  and  the  surge  that 
woukl  appall  the  individual  effort.  The  larger  public  objects 
make  us  glide  smoothly  and  unfelt  over  our  minor  private 
griefs.  To  be  happy,  my  dear  Godolphin,  you  must  forget 
yourself.  Your  refining  and  poetical  temperament  preys 
upon  your  content.  Learn  benevolence, —  it  is  the  only  cure 
to  a  morbid  nature." 

Godolphin  was  greatly  struck  by  this  answer  of  Eadclyffe, 
—  the  more  so,  as  he  had  a  deep  faith  in  the  unaffected  sin- 
cerity and  the  calculating  wisdom  of  his  adviser.  He  looked 
hard  in  E.adclyffe's  face,  and,  after  a  pause  of  some  moments, 
replied  slowly,  "  I  believe  you  are  right  after  all ;  and  I  have 
learned  in  a  few  short  sentences  the  secret  of  a  discontented 
life." 

Godolphin  would  have  sought  other  opportunities  of  con- 
versing with  Eadclyffe,  but  events  soon  parted  them.  Par- 
liament was  dissolved!  What  an  historical  event  is  recorded 
in  those  words!  The  moment  the  king  consented  to  that 
measure,  the  whole  series  of  subsequent  events  became,  to  an 
ordinary  prescience,  clear  as  in  a  mirror.  Parliament  dis- 
solved in  the  heat  of  the  popular  enthusiasm,  a  majority,  a 
great  majority  of  Eeformers,  was  sure  to  be  returned. 

Constance  perceived  at  a  glance  the  whole  train  of  conse- 
quences issuing  from  that  one  event,  —  perceived  and  exulted. 
A  glory  had  gone  forever  from  the  party  she  abhorred.  Her 
father  was  already  avenged.  She  heard  his  scornful  laugh 
ring  forth  from  the  depths  of  his  forgotten  grave ! 

London  emptied  itself  at  once.  England  was  one  election. 
Godolphin  remained  almost  alone.  For  the  first  time  a  sense 
of  littleness  crept  over  him, —  a  feeling  of  insignificance, 
which  wounded  and  galled  his  vain  nature.  In  these  great 
struggles  he  was  nothing.  The  admired,  the  cultivated, 
spirituel,  the  splendid  Godolphin  sank  below  the  commonest 
adventurer,  the  coarsest  brawler, —  yea,  the  humblest  free- 
man, who  felt  his  stake  in  the  State,  joined  the  canvass, 
swelled  the  cry,  and  helped  in  the  mighty  battle  between  old 
things  and  new,  which  was  so  resolutely  begun.  This  feeling 
gave  an  impetus  to  the  growth  of  the  new  aspirations  he  had 


304  GODOLPHIX. 

already  suffered  his  mind  to  generate ;  and  Constance  marked, 
with  vivid  delight,  that  he  now  listened  to  her  plans  with  in- 
terest, and  examined  the  political  field  with  a  curious  and 
searching  gaze. 

But  she  was  soon  condemned  to  a  disappointment  propor- 
tioned to  her  delight.  Though  Godolphin  had  hitherto  taken 
no  interest  in  party  politics,  his  prejudices,  his  feelings,  his 
habits  of  mind,  were  all  the  reverse  of  democratic.  When  he 
once  began  to  examine  the  bearings  of  the  momentous  ques- 
tion that  agitated  England,  he  was  not  slow  in  coming  to 
conclusions  which  threatened  to  produce  a  permanent  dis- 
agreement between  Constance  and  himself. 

"You  wish  me  to  enter  parliament,  my  dear  Constance," 
said  he,  with  his  quiet  smile;  "it  would  be  an  experiment 
dangerous  to  the  union  re-established  between  us.  I  should 
vote  against  your  Bill." 

"You!"  exclaimed  Constance,  with  warmth;  "is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  can  sympathize  with  the  fears  of  a  selfish 
oligarchy, —  with  the  cause  of  the  merchants  and  traffickers 
of  the  plainest  right  of  a  free  people, —  the  right  to  select 
their  representatives?" 

"My  dear  Constance,"  returned  Godolphin,  "my  whole 
theory  of  Government  is  aristocratic.  The  right  of  the  peo- 
ple to  choose  representatives !  —  3'ou  may  as  well  say  the 
right  of  the  people  to  choose  kings  or  magistrates  and  judges 
—  or  clergymen  and  archbishops !  The  people  have,  it  is 
true,  the  abstract  and  original  right  to  choose  all  these,  and 
every  year  to  chop  and  change  them  as  they  please;  but  the 
people,  very  properly,  in  all  States,  mortgage  their  elemen- 
tary rights  for  one  catholic  and  practical  right, —  the  right  to 
be  well  governed.  It  may  be  no  more  to  the  advantage  of 
the  State  that  the  People  (that  is,  the  majority,  the  populace) 
should  elect  uncontrolled  all  the  members  of  the  House  of 
Commons  than  that  they  should  elect  all  the  pastors  of  their 
religion.  The  sole  thing  we  have  to  consider  is,  will  they  be 
better  governed?  " 

"Unquestionably,"  said  Constance. 

"  Unquestionably !  —    Well,  I  question  it.     I  foresee  a  more 


GODOLPHIX.  305 

even  "balance  of  parties, —  nothing  else.  When  parties  are 
evenly  balanced.  States  tremble.  In  good  government  there 
should  be  somewhere  sufficient  power  to  carry  on,  not  unex- 
amined but  at  least  with  vigour,  the  different  operations  of 
government  itself.  In  free  countries,  therefore,  one  party 
ought  to  preponderate  sufficiently  over  the  other.  If  it  do 
not,  all  the  State  measures  are  crippled,  delayed,  distorted, 
and  the  State  languishes  while  the  doctors  dispute  as  to  the 
medicines  to  be  applied  to  it.  You  will  find  by  your  Bill,  not 
that  the  Tories  are  destroyed,  but  that  the  Whigs  and-  the 
Kadicals  are  strengthened;  the  Lords  are  not  crushed,  but 
the  Commons  are  in  a  state  to  contest  with  them.  Hence 
party  battles  upon  catchwords,  struggles  between  the  two 
chambers  for  things  of  straw.  You  who  desire  progress  and 
movement  will  find  the  real  affairs  of  this  great  Artificial 
Empire,  in  its  trade,  commerce,  colonies,  internal  legislation, 
standing  still  while  the  Whigs  and  the  Tories  pelt  each  other 
with  the  quibbles  of  faction.  Xo,  I  should  vote  against  your 
Bill  I  I  am  not  for  popular  governments,  though  I  like  free 
States.  All  the  advantages  of  democracy  seem  to  me  more 
than  counterbalanced  by  the  sacrifice  of  the  peace  and  tran- 
quillity, the  comfort  and  the  grace,  the  dignity  and  the  chari- 
ties of  life,  that  democracies  usually  entail.  If  the  object  of 
men  is  to  live  happily, —  not  to  strive  and  to  fret;  not  to 
make  money  in  the  market-place,  and  call  each  other  rogues 
on  the  hustings, — who  would  not  rather  be  a  German  than  an 
American?  I  own  I  regret  to  differ  from  you.  For  —  but  no 
matter  —  " 

"For!  —  what  were  you  about  to  say?  '' 

"  For  —  then,  since  you  must  know  it  —  I  am  beginning  to 
feel  interest  in  these  questions, —  excitement  is  contagious. 
And,  after  all,  if  a  man  really  deem  his  mother-country  in 
some  danger,  inaction  is  not  philosophy,  but  a  species  of  par- 
ricide. But  to  think  of  the  daily  and  hourly  pain  I  should 
occasion  to  you,  my  beloved  and  ardent  Constance,  by  shocking 
all  your  opinions,  counteracting  all  your  schemes,  working 
against  objects  which  your  father's  fate  and  your  early  asso- 
ciations have  so  singularly  made  duties  in  your  eyes, —  to  do 

20 


806  GODOLPHIN. 

all  this  is  a  patriotism  beyond  me.  Let  us  glide  out  of  this 
whirlpool,  and  hoist  sail  for  some  nook  in  the  country  where 
we  can  hear  gentler  sounds  than  the  roar  of  the  democracy." 

Constance  sighed,  and  suffered  Godolphin  to  quit  her  in 
silence.  But  her  generous  heart  was  touched  by  his  own 
generosity.  This  is  one  of  the  great  curses  of  a  woman  who 
aspires  to  the  man's  part  of  political  controversy.  If  the  man 
choose  to  act,  the  woman,  with  all  her  wiles,  her  intrigues,  her 
arts,  is  powerless.  If  Godolphin  were  to  enter  parliament  a 
Tory,  the  great  Whig  rendezvous  of  Erpiugham  House  was  lost, 
and  Constance  herself  a  cipher, —  and  her  father's  wrongs  for- 
gotten, and  the  stern  purpose  of  her  masculine  career  baffled 
at  the  very  moment  of  success.  She  now  repented  that  she 
had  ever  desired  to  draw  Godolphin's  attention  to  political 
matters.  She  wondered  at  her  own  want  of  foresight.  How, 
with  his  love  for  antiquity,  his  predilections  for  the  elegant 
and  the  serene,  his  philosophy  of  the  "  Eose-garden,"  could  she 
ever  have  supposed  that  he  would  side  with  the  bold  objects 
and  turbulent  will  of  a  popular  party  in  a  stormy  crisis? 

The  subject  was  not  renewed.  But  she  had  the  pain  of 
observing  that  Godolphin's  manner  was  altered:  he  took 
pleasure  in  none  of  his  old  hobbies, —  he  was  evidently  dis- 
satisfied with  himself.  In  fact,  it  is  true  that  he,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  felt  that  there  is  a  remorse  to  the  mind 
as  well  as  to  the  soul,  and  that  a  man  of  genius  cannot  be 
perpetually  idle  without,  as  he  touches  on  the  middle  of  his 
career,  looking  to  the  past  with  some  shame  and  to  the  future 
with  some  ambition.  One  evening,  when  he  had  sat  by  the 
open  window  in  a  thoughtful  and  melancholy,  almost  morose, 
silence  for  a  considerable  time,  Constance,  after  a  violent 
struggle  with  herself,  rose  suddenly,  and  fell  on  his  neck. 

''Forgive  me,  Percy,"  she  said,  unable  to  suppress  her 
tears, —  "forgive  me.  It  is  past;  I  have  no  right  that  you, 
so  superior  to  myself,  should  be  sacrified  to  my  —  my  x>reju- 
dices  you  would  call  them  —  so  be  it.  Is  it  for  your  wife  to 
condemn  you  to  be  inglorious?  ISTo,  no,  dear  Godolphin;  ful- 
fil your  destiny, —  you  are  born  for  high  objects.  Be  active, 
be  distinguished,  and  I  will  ask  no  more !  " 


GODOLPHIN.  307 

John  Vernon,  in  that  hour  you  were  forgotten !  ■\\Tio  among 
the  dead  can  ever  hope  for  fidelity,  when  love  to  the  living 
invites  a  woman  to  betray? 

"My  sweet  Constance,"  said  Godolphin,  drawing  her  to  his 
heart,  and  affected  in  proportion  as  he  appreciated  all  that  in 
that  speech  his  wife  gave  up  for  his  sake, —  the  all,  far  more 
than  the  lovely  person,  the  splendid  wealth,  the  lofty  rank 
that  she  had  brought  to  his  home, —  "my  sweet  Constance,  do 
not  think  I  will  take  advantage  of  words  so  generously  but 
hastily  spoken.  Time  enough  hereafter  to  think  of  differ- 
ences between  us.  At  present  let  us  indulge  only  the  luxury 
of  the  new  love,  the  holiness  of  the  new  nuptials,  that  have 
made  us  as  one  Being.  Perhaps  this  restlessness,  so  unusual 
to  me,  will  pass  away;  let  us  wait  a  while.  At  present 
*  Sparta  has  many  a  worthier  son.'  One  other  year,  one 
sweet  summer,  of  the  private  life  we  have  too  much  suffered 
to  glide  away,  enjoyed,  and  then  we  will  see  whether  the 
harsh  realities  of  Ambition  be  worth  either  a  concession  or  a 
dispute.  Let  us  go  into  the  country, —  to-morrow  if  you 
will." 

And  as  CoHstance  was  about  to  answer,  he  sealed  her  lips 
with  his  kiss. 

But  Lady  Erpingham  was  not  one  of  those  who  waver  in 
what  they  deem  a  duty.  She  passed  the  night  in  stern  and 
sleepless  commune  with  herself;  she  was  aware  of  all  that 
she  hazarded,  all  that  she  renounced;  she  was  even  tortured 
by  scruples  as  to  the  strange  oath  that  had  almost  unsexed 
her.  Still,  in  spite  of  all,  she  felt  that  nothing  would  excuse 
her  in  suffering  that  gifted  and  happy  intellect,  now  awak- 
ened from  the  sleep  of  the  Sybarite,  to  fall  back  into  its  lazy 
and  effeminate  repose.  She  had  no  right  to  doom  a  human 
soul  to  rot  away  in  its  clay.  Perhaps,  too,  she  hoped,  as  all 
polemical  enthusiasts  do,  that  Godolphin,  once  aroused,  would 
soon  become  her  convert.  Be  that  as  it  may,  she  delayed,  on 
various  pretences,  their  departure  from  London.  She  went 
secretly  the  next  day  to  one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  close 
Boroughs,  the  existence  of  which  was  about  to  be  annihilated, 
and  a  few  days  afterwards  Godolphin  received  a  letter  in- 


308  GODOLPHIN. 

forming  him  that  he  had  been  duly  elected  member  for . 

I  will  not  say  what  were  his  feelings  at  these  tidings.  Per- 
haps, such  is  man's  proud  and  wayward  heart,  he  felt- shame 
to  be  so  outdone  by  Constance. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 

NEW   VIEWS    OF   A   PRIVILEGED    ORDER.  —  THE    DEATH-BED 
OF    AUGUSTUS    SAVILLE. 

This  event  might  indeed  have  been  an  era  in  the  life  of 
Percy  Godolphin,  had  that  life  been  spared  to  a  more  ex- 
tended limit  than  it  was ;  and  yet,  so  long  had  his  ambition 
been  smoothed  and  polished  away  by  his  peculiarities  of 
thought,  and  so  little  was  his  calm  and  indifferent  tone  of 
mind  suited  to  the  hot  contests  and  nightly  warfare  of  parlia- 
mentary politics,  that  it  is  not  probable  he  would  ever  have 
won  a  continuous  and  solid  distinction  in  a  career  which  re- 
quires either  obtuseness  of  mind  or  enthusiasm  of  purpose  to 
encounter  the  repeated  mortifications  and  failures  which  the 
most  brilliant  debutant  ordinarily  endures.  As  it  was,  how- 
ever, it  produced  a  grave  a,nd  solemn  train  of  thought  in  Go- 
dolphin's  breast.  He  mused  much  over  his  past  life,  and  the 
musing  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  felt  like  one  of  those  re- 
corded in  physiological  history  who  have  been  in  a  trance  for 
years:  and  now  slowly  awakening,  he  acknowledged  the  stir 
and  rush  of  revived  but  confused  emotions.  Nature,  perhaps, 
had  intended  Godolphin  for  a  poet ;  for,  with  the  exception 
of  the  love  of  glory,  the  poetical  characteristics  were  rife 
within  him;  and  over  his  whole  past  existence  the  dimness  of 
unexpressed  poetical  sensation  had  clung  and  hovered.  It 
was  this  which  had  deadened  his  soul  to  the  active  world, 
and  wrapped  him  in  the  land  of  dreams;  it  was  this  which 
had  induced  that  vague  and  restless  dissatisfaction  with  the 
Actual  which  had  brought  the  thirst  for  the  Ideal;  it  was 


GODOLPHIN.  309 

this  which  had  made  him  fastidious  in  love,  repining  in 
pleasure,  magnificent  in  luxury,  seeking  and  despising  all 
things  in  the  same  breath.  There  are  many,  perhaps,  of  this 
sort,  who,  having  the  poet's  nature,  have  never  found  the 
poet's  vent  to  his  emotions;  have  wandered  over  the  visionary 
world  without  chancing  to  discover  the  magic  wand  that  was 
stored  within  the  dark  chamber  of  their  mind,  and  would  have 
reduced  the  visions  into  shape  and  substance.  Alas!  what 
existence  can  be  more  unfulfilled  than  that  of  one  who  has 
the  soul  of  the  poet  and  not  the  skill;  who  has  the  suscepti- 
bility and  the  craving,  not  the  consolation  or  the  reward? 

But  if  this  cloud  of  dreamlike  emotion  had  so  long  hung 
over  Godolphin,  it  began  now  to  melt  away  from  his  heart; 
a  clearer  and  distincter  view  of  the  large  objects  of  life  lay 
before  him ;  and  he  felt  that  he  was  standing,  half  stunned 
and  passive,  in  the  great  crisis  of  his  fate. 

The  day  was  now  fixed  for  their  departure  to  Wendover, 
when  Saville  was  taken  alarmingly  ill;  Godolphin  was  sent 
for,  late  one  evening.  He  found  the  soi-disant  Epicurean  at 
the  point  of  death,  but  in  perfect  possession  of  his  senses. 
The  scene  around  him  was  emblematic  of  his  life :  save  Go- 
dolphin, not  a  friend  was  by.  Saville  had  some  dozen  or  two 
of  natural  children  —  where  were  they?  He  had  abandoned 
them  to  their  fate ;  he  knew  not  of  their  existence,  nor  they 
of  his  death.  Lonely  in  his  selfishness,  was  he  left  to  breathe 
out  the  small  soul  of  a  man  of  hon  ton  !  But  I  must  do  Saville 
the  justice  to  say,  that  if  he  was  without  the  mourners  and 
the  attendants  that  belong  to  natural  ties,  he  did  not  require 
them.  His  was  no  whimpering  exit  from  life:  the  cham- 
pagne was  drained  to  the  last  drop ;  and  Death,  like  the  true 
boon  companion,  was  about  to  shatter  the  empty  glass. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Saville,  feebly,  but  pressing  with 
weak  fingers  Godolphin's  hand, —  "well,  the  game  is  up,  the 
lights  are  going  out,  and  presently  the  last  guest  will  depart, 
and  all  be  darkness !  "  Here  the  doctor  came  to  the  bedside 
with  a  cordial.  The  dying  man,  before  he  took  it,  fixed  upon 
the  leech  an  eye  which,  although  fast  glazing,  still  retained 
something  of  its  keen,  searching  shrewdness. 


310  GODOLPHm. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  my  good  sir,  how  many  hours  more  can  you 
keep  in  this  —  this  breath?  " 

The  doctor  looked  at  Godolphin. 

*'I  understand  you,"  said  Saville;  "you  are  shy  on  these 
points.  Never  be  shy,  my  good  fellow;  it  is  inexcusable 
after  twenty :  besides,  it  is  a  bad  compliment  to  my  nerves,  — 
a  gentleman  is  prepared  for  every  event.  Sir,  it  is  only  a 
roturier  whom  death,  or  anything  else,  takes  by  surprise. 
How  many  hours,  then,  can  I  live?  " 

"Not  many,  I  fear,  sir;  perhaps  until  daybreak." 

"Ill/  <iay  breaks  about  twelve  o'clock,  p.  m.,"  said  Saville, 
as  dryly  as  his  gasps  would  let  him.  "  Very  well ;  give  me 
the  cordial.  Don't  let  me  go  to  sleep,— I  don't  want  to  be 
cheated  out  of  a  minute.  So,  so!  I  am  better.  You  may 
withdraw,  doctor.  Let  my  spaniel  come  up.  Bustle,  Bustle ! 
poor  fellow!  poor  fellow!  Lie  down,  sir!  be  quiet!  And 
now,  Godolphin,  a  few  words  in  farewell.  I  always  liked 
you  greatly;  you  know  you  were  my  profile,  and  you  have 
turned  out  well.  You  have  not  been  led  away  by  the  vulgar 
passions  of  politics  and  place  and  power.  You  have  had 
power  over  power  itself;  you  have  not  office,  but  you  have 
fashion.  You  have  made  the  greatest  match  in  England; 
very  prudently  not  marrying  Constance  Vernon,  very  pru- 
dently marrying  Lady  Erpingham.  You  are  at  the  head  and 
front  of  society;  you  have  excellent  taste,  and  spend  your 
wealth  properly.  All  this  must  make  your  conscience  clear, 
—  a  wonderful  consolation !  Always  keep  a  sound  conscience ; 
it  is  a  great  blessing  on  one's  death-bed;  it  is  a  great  blessing 
to  me  in  this  hour,  for  I  have  played  my  part  decently,  eh?  I 
have  enjoyed  life, as  much  as  so  dull  a  possession  can  be  enjoyed; 
I  have  loved,  gamed,  drunk,  but  I  have  never  lost  my  char- 
acter as  a  gentleman:  thank  Heaven,  I  have  no  remorse  of 
that  sort!  Follow  my  example  to  the  last  and  you  will  die 
as  easily.  I  have  left  you  my  correspondence  and  my  journal : 
you  may  publish  them  if  you  like;  if  not,  burn  them.  They 
are  full  of  amusing  anecdotes;  but  I  don't  care  for  fame,  as 
you  well  know, —  especially  posthumous  fame.  Do  as  you 
please,  then,  with  my  literary  remains.     Take  care  of  my 


GODOLPHIN.  311 

dog  —  't  is  a  good  creature ;  and  let  me  be  quietly  buried. 
No  bad  taste,  no  ostentation,  no  epitaph.  I  am  very  glad  I 
die  before  the  d — d  Revolution  that  must  come;  I  don't  want 
to  take  svine  with  the  member  for  Holborn  Bars.  I  am  a  type 
of  a  system;  I  expire  before  the  system;  my  death  is  the 
herald  of  its  fall." 

TVith  these  expressions  —  not  continuously  uttered,  but  at 
short  intervals  —  Saville  turned  away  his  face :  his  breathing 
became  thick:  he  fell  into  the  slumber  he  had  deprecated; 
and,  after  about  an  hour's  silence,  died  away  as  insensibly  as 
an  infant.     "  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi !  " 

The  first  living  countenance  beside  the  death-bed  on  which 
Godolphin's  eye  fell  was  that  of  Fanny  Millinger;  she  (who 
had  been  much  with  Saville  during  his  latter  days,  for  her 
talk  amused  him,  and  her  good-nature  made  her  willing  to 
amuse  any  one)  had  been,  at  his  request,  summoned  also  with 
Godolphin  at  the  sudden  turn  of  his  disease.  She  was  at  the 
theatre  at  the  time,  and  had  only  just  arrived  when  the  de- 
ceased had  fallen  into  his  last  sleep.  There,  silent  and 
shocked,  she  stood  by  the  bed,  opposite  Godolphin.  She  had 
not  stayed  to  change  her  stage-dress;  and  the  tinsel  and  mock 
jewels  glittered  on  the  revolted  eye  of  her  quondam  lover. 
What  a  type  of  the  life  just  extinguished!  What  a  satire  on 
its  mountebank  artificialities! 

Some  little  time  after,  she  joined  Godolphin  in  the  desolate 
apartment  below.  She  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  her  tears  — 
for  she  wept  easily  —  flowed  fast  down  her  cheeks,  washing 
away  the  lavish  rouge  which  imperfectly  masked  the  wrinkles 
that  Time  had  lately  begun  to  sow  on  a  surface  Godolphin 
had  remembered  so  fair  and  smooth. 

"Poor  Saville!  "  said  she,  falteringl}";  "he  died  without  a 
pang.     Ah,  he  had  the  best  temper  possible !  " 

Godolphin  sat  by  the  writing-table  of  the  deceased,  shading 
his  brow  with  the  hand  which  the  actress  left  disengaged. 

"Fanny,"  said  he,  bitterly,  after  a  pause,  "the  world  is 
indeed  a  stage.  It  has  lost  a  consummate  actor,  though  in  a 
small  part." 

The  saying  was  wrung  from  Godolphin, —  and  was  not  said 


312  GODOLPHIN. 

unkindly,  though  it  seemed  so,  for  he  too  had  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "the  play-house  has  indeed  taught -us,  in 
our  youth,  many  things  which  the  real  world  could  not  teach 
us  better." 

"Life  differs  from  the  play  only  in  this,"  said  Godolphin, 
some  time  afterwards,  —  "  it  has  no  plot ;  all  is  vague,  desul- 
tory, unconnected,  till  the  curtain  drops  with  the  mystery 
unsolved." 

Those  were  the  last  words  that  Godolphin  ever  addressed 
to  the  actress. 


CHAPTER   LXVI. 

THE  JOUKNEY  AND  THE  SURPRISE.  —  A  WALK  IN  THE  SUMMER 
NIGHT.  — THE  STARS,  AND  THE  ASSOCIATION  THAT  MEMORY 
MAKES    WITH    NATURE. 

This  event  detained  Godolphin  some  days  longer  in  town. 
He  saw  the  last  rites  performed  to  Saville,  and  he  was  pres- 
ent at  the  opening  of  the  will. 

As  in  life  Saville  had  never  lent  a  helping  hand  to  the  dis- 
tressed, as  he  had  mixed  with  the  wealthy  only,  so  now  to 
the  wealthy  only  was  his  wealth  devoted.  The  rich  Godol- 
phin was  his  principal  heir;  not  a  word  was  even  said  about 
his  illegitimate  children,  not  an  inquiry  ordained  towards  his 
poor  relations.  In  this,  as  in  all  the  formula  of  his  will, 
Saville  followed  the  prescribed  customs  of  the  world. 

Fast  went  the  panting  steeds  that  bore  Constance  and  Go- 
dolphin from  the  desolate  city.  Bright  was  the  summer  sky, 
and  green  looked  the  smiling  fields  that  lay  on  either  side 
their  road.  Nature  was  awake  and  active.  What  a  delicious 
contrast  to  the  scenes  of  Art  which  they  left  behind !  Con- 
stance exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to  cheer  the  spirits  of 
her  companion,  and  succeeded.  In  the  small  compass  which 
confined  them  together,   their  conversation  flowed  in  confi- 


GODOLPHIX.  313 

dence  and  intimate  affection.  Xot  since  the  first  month  of 
their  union  had  they  talked  with  less  reserve  and  more  entire 
love  —  only  there  was  this  difference  in  their  topics :  they 
then  talked  of  the  future  only,  they  now  talked  more  of  the 
past.  They  uttered  many  a  fond  regret  over  their  several 
faults  to  each  other;  and,  with  clasped  hands,  congratulated 
themselves  on  their  present  reunion  of  heart.  They  allowed 
how  much  all  things  independent  of  affection  had  deceived 
them,  and  no  longer  exacting  so  much  from  love,  they  felt  its 
real  importance.  Ah,  why  do  all  of  us  lose  so  many  years  in 
searching  after  happiness,  but  never  inquiring  into  its  nature ! 
"We  are  like  one  who  collects  the  books  of  a  thousand  tongues, 
and  knowing  not  their  language,  wonders  why  they  do  not 
delight  him. 

But  still,  athwart  the  mind  of  Constance  one  dark  image 
would  ever  and  anon  obtrude  itself;  the  solitary  and  mystic 
Lucilla,  with  her  erring  brain  and  forlorn  fortunes,  was  not 
even  in  happiness  to  be  forgotten.  There  were  times,  too,  in 
that  short  journey,  when  she  felt  the  tale  of  her  interview 
with  that  unhappy  being  rise  to  her  lips;  but  ever  when  she 
looked  on  the  countenance  of  Godolphin,  beaming  with  more 
heartfelt  and  homeborn  gladness  than  she  had  seen  for  years, 
she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  seeing  it  darkened  by  the 
pain  her  story  would  inflict,  and  she  shrank  from  embittering 
moments  so  precious  to  her  heart. 

All  her  endeavours  to  discover  Lucilla  had  been  in  vain; 
but  an  unquiet  presentiment  that  at  any  moment  that  dis- 
covery might  be  made,  perhaps  in  the  presence  of  Godolphin, 
constantly  haunted  her,  and  she  even  now  looked  painfully 
forth  at  each  inn  where  they  changed  horses,  lest  the  sad, 
stern  features  of  the  soothsayer  should  appear,  and  break 
that  spell  of  happy  quiet  which  now  lay  over  the  spirit  of 
Godolphin. 

It  was  towards  the  evening  that  their  carriage  slowly  wound 
up  a  steep  and  long  ascent.  The  sun  yet  wanted  an  hour  to 
its  setting ;  and  at  their  right,  its  slant  and  mellowed  beams 
fell  over  rich  fields,  green  with  the  prodigal  luxuriance  of 
June,  and  intersected  by  hedges  from  which,  proud  and  fre- 


314  GODOLPHIN. 

quent,  the  oak  and  elm  threw  forth  their  lengthened  shadows. 
On  their  left  the  grass  less  fertile  and  the  spaces  less  in- 
closed were  whitened  with  flocks  of  sheep ;  and  far  and  soft 
came  the  bleating  of  the  lambs  upon  their  ear.  They  saw 
not  the  shepherd  nor  any  living  form;  but  from  between  the 
thicker  groups  of  trees  the  chimneys  of  peaceful  cottages 
peered  forth,  and  gave  to  the  pastoral  serenity  of  the  scene 
that  still  and  tranquil  aspect  of  life  which  alone  suited  it. 
The  busy  wheel  in  the  heart  of  Constance  was  at  rest,  and 
Godolphin's  soul,  steeped  in  the  luxury  of  the  present  hour, 
felt  that  delicious  happiness  which  would  be  heaven  could  it 
outlive  the  hour. 

"My  Constance,"  whispered  he,  "why,  since  we  return  at 
last  to  these  scenes,  why  should  we  ever  leave  them?  Amidst 
them  let  us  recall  our  youth!  "  Constance  sighed,  but  with 
pleasure,  and  pressed  Godolphin's  hand  to  her  lips. 

And  now  they  had  gained  the  hill,  a  sudden  colour  flushed 
over  Godolphin's  cheek. 

"Surely,"  said  he,  "I  remember  this  view.  Yonder  valley! 
This  is  not  the  road  to  Wendover  Castle;  this  — my  father's 
home !  —  the  same,  and  not  the  same !  " 

Yes!  Below,  basking  in  the  western  light,  lay  the  cot- 
tage in  which  Godolphin's  childhood  had  been  passed.  There 
was  the  stream  rippling  merrily;  there  the  broken  and  fern- 
clad  turf,  with  "  its  old  hereditary  trees ;  "  but  the  ruins !  — 
the  shattered  arch,  the  mouldering  tower,  were  left  indeed; 
but  new  arches,  new  turrets  had  arisen,  and  so  dexterously 
blended  with  the  whole  that  Godolphin  might  have  fancied 
the  hall  of  his  forefathers  restored, —  not  indeed  in  the  same 
vast  proportions  and  cumbrous  grandeur  as  of  old,  but  still 
alike  in  shape  and  outline,  and  such  even  in  size  as  would 
have  contented  the  proud  heart  of  its  last  owner.  Godolphin's 
eyes  turned  inquiringly  to  Constance. 

"  It  should  have  been  more  consistent  with  its  ancient  di- 
mensions," said  she;  "but  then  it  would  have  taken  half  our 
lives  to  have  built  it." 

"But  this  must  have  been  the  work  of  years?  " 

"It  was." 


GODOLPHIN.  315 

"And  ijour  work,  Constance?  " 

"For  you." 

"  And  it  was  for  tliis  tliat  you  hesitated  when  I  asked  you 

to  consent  to  raising  the  money  for  the  purchase  of  Lord 's 

collection?" 

"  Yes;  am  I  forgiven?  " 

"Dearest  Constance,"  said  Godolphin,  flinging  his  arms 
around  her,  "how  have  I  wronged  you!  During  those  very 
years,  then,  of  our  estrangement,  during  those  very  years  in 
which  I  thought  you  indifferent,  you  were  silently  preparing 
this  noble  revenge  on  the  injury  I  did  you.  Why,  why  did  I 
not  know  this  before?  Why  did  you  not  save  us  both  from  so 
long  a  misunderstanding  of  each  other?" 

"Dearest  Percy,  I  was  to  blame;  but  I  always  looked  to 
this  hour  as  to  a  pleasure  of  which  I  could  not  bear  to  rob 
myself.  I  always  fancied  that  when  this  task  was  finished, 
and  you  could  witness  it,  you  would  feel  how  uppermost  you 
always  were  in  my  thoughts,  and  forgive  me  many  faults  from 
J;hat  consideration.  I  knew  that  I  was  executing  your  father's 
great  wish;  I  knew  that  you  always,  although  unconsciously, 
perhaps,  sympathized  in  that  wish.  I  only  grieve  that,  as 
yet,  it  has  been  executed  so  imperfectly." 

"But  how,"  continued  Godolphin,  gazing  on  the  new  pile 
as  they  now  neared  the  entrance,  "how  was  it  this  never 
reached  my  ears  through  other  quarters?" 

"But  it  did,  Percy;  don't  you  remember  our  country  neigh- 
bour, Dartmour, complimenting  you  on  your  intended  improve- 
ments, and  you  fancied  it  was  irony,  and  turned  your  back  on 
the  discomfited  squire?  " 

They  now  drove  under  the  gates  surmounted  with  Godol- 
phin's  arms;  and  in  a  few  minutes  more,  they  were  within 
the  renovated  halls  of  the  Priory. 

Perhaps  it  was  impossible  for  Constance  to  have  more  sen- 
sibly touched  and  flattered  Godolphin  than  by  this  surprise. 
It  affected  him  far  more  than  the  political  concession  which 
to  her  had  been  so  profound  a  sacrifice ;  for  his  early  poverty 
had  produced  in  him  somewhat  of  that  ancestral  pride  which 
the  poor  only  can  gracefully  wear;  and  although  the  tie  be- 


316  GODOLPHIN. 

tween  his  father  and  himself  had  not  possessed  much  endear- 
ment, yet  he  had  often,  with  the  generosity  that  belonged  to 
him,  regretted  that  his  parent  had  not  survived  to  share  in 
his  present  wealth,  and  to  devote  some  portion  of  it  to  the 
realization  of  those  wishes  which  he  had  never  been  permitted 
to  consummate.  Godolphin,  too,  was  precisely  of  a  nature  to 
appreciate  the  delicacy  of  Constance's  conduct,  and  to  be 
deeply  penetrated  by  the  thought  that,  while  he  was  follow- 
ing a  career  so  separate  from  hers,  she,  in  the  midst  of  all 
her  ambitious  projects,  could  pause  to  labour,  unthanked  and 
in  concealment,  for  the  delight  of  this  hour's  gratification  to 
him;  the  delicacy  and  the  forethought  affected  him  the  more, 
because  they  made  not  a  part  of  the  ordinary  character  of  the 
high  and  absorbed  ambition  of  Constance.  He  did  not  thank 
her  much  by  words,  but  his  looks  betrayed  all  he  felt,  and 
Constance  was  overpaid. 

Although  the  new  portion  of  the  building  was  necessarily 
not  extensive,  yet  each  chamber  was  of  those  grand  propor- 
tions which  suited  the  magnificent  taste  of  Godolphin,  and 
harmonized  with  the  ancient  ruins.  Constance  had  shown 
her  tact  by  leaving  the  ruins  themselves  (which  it  was  pro- 
fane to  touch)  unrestored;  but  so  artfully  were  those  con- 
nected with  the  modern  addition,  and  thence  with  the  apart- 
ments in  the  cottage,  which  she  had  not  scrupled  to  remodel, 
that  an  effect  was  produced  from  the  whole  far  more  splendid 
than  many  Gothic  buildings  of  greater  extent  and  higher  pre- 
tensions can  afford.  Godolphin  wandered  delightedly  over 
the  whole,  charmed  with  the  taste  and  judgment  which  pre- 
sided over  even  the  nicest  arrangement. 

"Why,  where,"  said  he,  struck  with  the  accurate  antiquity 
of  some  of  the  details,  "where  learned  you  all  these  minutiae? 
You  are  as  wise  as  Hope  himself  upon  cornices  and  tables." 

"I  was  forced  to  leave  these  things  to  others,"  answered 
Constance;  "but  I  took  care  that  they  possessed  the  neces- 
sary science." 

The  night  was  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  they  walked  forth 
under  the  summer  moon  among  those  grounds  in  which  Con- 
stance had  first  seen  Godolphin.     They  stood  by  the  very 


GODOLPHIX  317 

rivulet,  they  paused  at  the  very  spot!  On  the  murmuring 
bosom  of  the  wave  floated  manj^  a  water-flower;  and  now  and 
then  a  sudden  splash,  a  sudden  circle  in  the  shallow  stream, 
denoted  the  leap  of  the  river-tyrant  on  his  prey.  There  was 
a  universal  odour  in  the  soft  air, —  that  delicate,  that  ineffa- 
ble fragrance  belonging  to  those  midsummer  nights  which  the 
rich  English  poetry  might  well  people  with  Oberon  and  his 
fairies;  the  bat  wheeled  in  many  a  ring  along  the  air;  but 
the  gentle  light  bathed  all  things,  and  robbed  his  wanderings 
of  the  gloomier  associations  that  belong  to  them;  and  ever 
and  ever,  the  busy  moth  darted  to  and  fro  among  the  flowers, 
or  misled  upwards  by  the  stars  whose  beam  allured  it,  wan- 
dered, like  Desire  after  Happiness,  in  search  of  that  light  it 
might  never  reach.  And  those  stars  still,  with  their  soft, 
unspeakable  eyes  of  love,  looked  down  upon  Godolphin  as  of 
old,  when,  by  the  Italian  lake,  he  roved  with  her  for  whom 
he  had  become  the  world  itself.  No,  not  now,  nor  ever, 
could  he  gaze  upon  those  wan,  mysterious  orbs,  and  not  feel 
the  pang  that  reminded  him  of  Lucilla !  Between  them  and 
her  was  an  affinity  which  his  imagination  could  not  sever. 
All  whom  we  have  loved  have  something  in  nature  especially 
devoted  to  their  memory,  —  a  peculiar  flower,  a  breath  of 
air,  a  leaf,  a  tone.  What  love  is  without  some  such 
association, — 

"  Striking  the  electric  cliain  -wherewith  we  're  bound  ?  " 

But  the  dim  and  shadowy  and  solemn  stars  were  indeed 
meet  remembrances  of  Yolktman's  wild  daughter;  and  so  in- 
timately was  their  light  connected  in  Godolphin's  breast  with 
that  one  image,  that  their  very  softness  had,  to  his  eyes, 
something  fearful  and  menacing, —  although  as  in  sadness, 
not  in  anger. 


318  GODOLPHIN. 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

THE  FULL  RENEWAL  OF   LOVE.  —  HAPPINESS  PRODUCES  FEAR, 
AND    IN    TO-DAY    ALREADY    WALKS    TO-MORROW. 

O,  FIRST  Love !  well  sang  the  gay  minstrel  of  France,  that 
we  return  again  and  again  to  thee.  As  the  earth  returns  to 
its  spring,  and  is  green  once  more,  we  go  back  to  the  life  of 
life  and  forget  the  seasons  that  have  rolled  between !  Whether 
it  was  —  perhaps  so  —  that  in  the  minds  of  both  was  a  feeling 
that  their  present  state  was  not  fated  to  endure ;  whether  they 
felt,  in  the  deep  calm  they  enjoyed,  that  the  storm  was  al- 
ready at  hand, —  whether  this  was  the  truth  I  know  not;  but 
certain  it  is  that  during  the  short  time  they  remained  at  Go- 
dolphin  Priory,  previous  to  their  earthly  separation,  Con- 
stance and  Godolphin  were  rather  like  lovers  for  the  first 
time  united  than  like  those  who  have  dragged  on  the  chain 
for  years.  Their  perfect  solitude,  the  absence  of  all  intru- 
sion, so  unlike  the  life  they  had  long  passed,  renewed  all 
that  charm,  that  rapture  in  each  other's  society,  which  belong 
to  the  first  youth  of  love.  True  that  this  could  not  have  en- 
dured long ;  but  Fate  suffered  it  to  endure  to  the  last  of  that 
tether  which  remained  to  their  union.  Consta,nce  was  not 
again  doomed  to  the  severe  and  grating  shock  which  the  sense 
of  estrangement  brings  to  a  woman's  heart;  she  was  sensible 
that  Godolphin  was  never  so  entirely,  so  passionately  her 
own,  as  toAvards  the  close  of  their  mortal  connection.  Every- 
thing around  them  breathed  of  their  first  love.  This  was 
that  home  of  Godolphin  to  which,  from  the  splendid  halls  of 
Wendover,  the  young  soul  of  the  proud  orphan  had  so  often 
and  so  mournfuly  flown  with  a  yearning  and  wistful  interest; 
this  was  that  spot  in  which  he,  awaking  from  the  fever  of  the 
world,  had  fed  his  first  dreams  of  her.     The  scene,  the  soli- 


GODOLPHIX.  319 

tufle,  was  as  a  batli  to  their  love, —  it  braced,  it  freshened,  it 
revived  its  tone.  They  wandered,  they  read,  they  thought 
together;  the  air  of  the  spot  was  an  intoxication.  The  world 
around  and  without  was  agitated;  they  felt  it  not :  the  breakers 
of  the  great  deep  died  in  murmurs  on  their  ear.  Ambition 
lulled  its  voice  to  Constance ;  Godolphin  had  realized  his  vis- 
ions of  the  ideal.  Time  had  dimmed  their  young  beauty,  but 
their  eyes  saw  it  not;  they  were  young,  they  were  all  beauti- 
ful, to  each  other. 

And  Constance  hung  on  the  steps  of  her  lover  —  still  let 
that  name  be  his !  She  could  not  bear  to  lose  him  for  a  mo- 
ment: a  vague  indistinctness  of  fear  seized  her  if  she  saw 
him  not.  Again  and  again,  in  the  slumbers  of  the  night,  she 
stretched  forth  her  arms  to  feel  that  he  was  near;  all  her 
pride,  her  coldness  seemed  gone,  as  by  a  spell;  she  loved  as 
the  softest,  the  fondest,  love.  Are  we,  0  Euler  of  the  fut- 
ure !  imbued  with  the  half -felt  spirit  of  prophecy  as  the  hour 
of  evil  approaches, —  the  great,  the  fierce,  the  irremediable 
evil  of  a  life?  In  this  depth  and  intensity  of  their  renewed 
passion,  was  there  not  something  preternatural?  Did  they 
not  tremble  as  they  loved?  They  were  on  a  spot  to  which 
the  dark  waters  were  slowly  gathering;  they  clung  to  the 
Hour,  for  eternity  was  lowering  round. 

It  was  one  evening  that  a  foreboding  emotion  of  this  kind 
weighed  heavily  on  Constance.  She  pressed  Godolphin's  hand 
in  hers,  and  when  he  returned  the  pressure,  she  threw  herself 
on  his  neck,  and  burst  into  tears.  Godolphin  was  alarmed; 
he  covered  her  cheek  with  kisses,  he  sought  the  cause  of  her 
emotion. 

"There  is  no  cause,"  answered  Constance,  recovering  her- 
self, but  speaking  in  a  faltering  voice,  "only  I  feel  the  im- 
possibility that  this  happiness  can  last;  its  excess  makes  me 
shudder." 

As  she  spoke,  the  wind  rose  and  swept  mourningly  over  the 
large  leaves  of  the  chestnut-tree  beneath  which  they  stood; 
the  serene  stillness  of  the  evening  seemed  gone;  an  unquiet 
and  melancholy  spirit  was  loosened  abroad,  and  the  chill  of 
the  sudden  change  which  is  so  frequent  to  our  climate  came 


320  GODOLPHIN. 

piercingly  upon  them.  Godolphin  was  silent  for  some  mo- 
ments, for  the  thought  found  a  sympathy  in  his  own. 

"And  is  it  truly  so?"  he  said  at  last.  "Is  there  really  to 
be  no  permanent  happiness  for  us  below?  Is  pain  always  to 
tread  the  heels  of  pleasure?  Are  we  never  to  say  the  harbour 
is  reached,  and  we  are  safe?  No,  my  Constance,"  he  added, 
warming  into  the  sanguine  vein  that  traversed  even  his  most 
desponding  moods,  "no!  let  us  not  cherish  this  dark  belief; 
there  is  no  experience  for  the  future;  one  hour  lies  to  the 
next;  if  what  has  been  seem  thus  chequered,  it  is  no  type  of 
what  may  be.  We  have  discovered  in  each  other  that  world 
that  was  long  lost  to  our  eyes ;  we  cannot  lose  it  again ;  death 
only  can  separate  us !  " 

"  Ah,  death  !  "  said  Constance,  shuddering. 

"  Do  not  recoil  at  that  word,  my  Constance,  for  we  are  yet 
in  the  noon  of  life;  why  bring,  like  the  Egyptian,  the  spectre 
to  the  feast?  And,  after  all,  if  death  come  while  we  thus 
love,  it  is  better  than  change  and  time, —  better  than  custom 
which  palls,  better  than  age  which  chills.  Oh,"  continued 
Godolphin,  passionately,  "oh,  if  this  narrow  shoal  and  sand 
of  time  be  but  a  breathing  spot  in  the  great  heritage  of  im- 
mortality, why  cheat  ourselves  with  words  so  vague  as  life 
and  death?  What  is  the  difference?  At  most,  the  entrance 
in  and  the  departure  from  one  scene  in  our  wide  career.  How 
many  scenes  are  left  to  us !  We  do  but  hasten  our  journey, 
not  close  it.  Let  us  believe  this,  Constance,  and  cast  from 
us  all  fear  of  our  disunion." 

As  he  spoke,  Constance's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face, 
and  the  deep  calm  that  reigned  there  sank  into  her  soul,  and 
silenced  its  murmurs.  The  thought  of  futurity  is  that  which 
Godolphin  (because  it  is  so  with  all  idealists)  mvist  have  re- 
volved with  the  most  frequent  fervour;  but  it  was  a  thought 
which  he  so  rarely  touched  upon  that  it  was  the  first  and  only 
time  Constance  ever  heard  it  breathed  from  his  lips. 

They  turned  into  the  house :  and  the  mark  is  still  in  that 
page  of  the  volume  which  they  read,  where  the  melodious 
accents  of  Godolphin  died  upon  the  heart  of  Constance.  Can 
she  ever  turn  to  it  again? 


GODOLPHIN.  321 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

THE     LAST     CONVERSATION      BETWEEN     GODOLPHIN      AND     CON- 
STANCE.   HIS     THOUGHTS     AND     SOLITARY     WALK      AMIDST 

THE     SCENES     OF     HIS     YOUTH.  THE     LETTER.  THE     DE- 
PARTURE. 

They  had  denied  themselves  to  all  the  visitors  who  had  at- 
tacked the  Priory ;  but  on  their  first  arrival,  they  had  deemed 
it  necessary  to  conciliate  their  neighbours  by  concentrating 
into  one  formal  act  of  hospitality  all  those  social  courtesies 
which  they  could  not  persuade  themselves  to  relinquish  their 
solitude  in  order  singly  to  perform.  Accordingly,  a  day  had 
been  fixed  for  one  grand  fete  at  the  Priory ;  it  was  to  follow 
close  on  the  election,  and  be  considered  as  in  honour  of  that 
event.  The  evening  for  this  gala  succeeded  that  which  I 
have  recorded  in  the  last  chapter.  It  was  with  great  reluc- 
tance that  they  prepared  themselves  to  greet  this  sole  inter- 
ruption of  their  seclusion;  and  they  laughed,  although  they 
did  not  laugh  cordially,  at  the  serious  annoyance  which  the 
giving  a  ball  was  for  the  first  time  to  occasion  to  persons  who 
had  been  giving  balls  for  a  succession  of  years. 

The  day  was  remarkably  still  and  close ;  the  sun  had  not 
once  pierced  through  the  dull  atmosphere,  which  was  charged 
with  the  yet  silent  but  gathering  thunder;  and  as  the  evening 
came  on,  the  sullen  tokens  of  an  approaching  storm  becam;' 
more  and  more  loweringly  pronounced. 

"We  shall  not,  I  fear,  have  propitious  weather  for  our  fes- 
tival to-night,"  said  Godolphin;  "but  after  a  general  election, 
people's  nerves  are  tolerably  hardened.  What  are  the  petty 
fret  and  tumult  of  nature,  lasting  but  an  hour,  to  the  angry 
and  everlasting  passions  of  men  ?  " 

"  A  profound  deduction  from  a  wet  night,  dear  Percy, "  said 
Constance,  smiling. 

21 


322  GODOLPHIN. 

"Like  our  friend  C ,"  rejoined  Godolpliin,  in  the  same 

vein,  "  I  can  philosophize  on  the  putting  on  one's  gloves,  you 
know;"  and  therewith  their  conversation  flowed  into  a  vein 
singularly  contrasted  with  the  character  of  the  coming  events. 
Time  fled  on  as  they  were  thus  engaged  until  Constance  started 
up,  surprised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  to  attend  the  duties 
of  the  toilette. 

"Wear  this,  dearest,"  said  Godolphin,  taking  a  rose  from 
a  flower-stand  by  the  window,  "in  memory  of  that  ball  at 
Wendover  Castle,  which,  although  itself  passed  bitterly  enough 
for  me,  has  yet  left  so  many  happy  recollections."  Constance 
put  the  rose  into  her  bosom;  its  leaves  were  then  all  fresh  and 
brilliant, —  so  were  her  prospects  for  the  future.  He  kissed 
her  forehead  as  they  parted,  —  they  parted  for  the  last  time. 

Godolphin,  left  alone,  turned  to  the  window,  which,  open- 
ing to  the  ground,  invited  him  forth  among  the  flowers  that 
studded  the  grass-plots  which  sloped  away  to  the  dark  and 
unwaving  trees  that  girded  the  lawn.  That  pause  of  nature 
which  precedes  a  storm  ever  had  a  peculiar  attraction  to  his 
mind ;  and  instinctively  he  sauntered  from  the  house,  wrapped 
in  the  dreaming,  half-developed  thought  which  belonged  to 
his  temperament.  Mechanically  he  strayed  on  until  he  found 
himself  beside  the  still  lake  which  the  hollows  of  the  disman- 
tled park  embedded.  There  he  paused,  gazing  unconsciously 
on  the  gloomy  shadows  which  fell  from  the  arches  of  the 
Priory  and  the  tall  trees  around.  Not  a  ripple  stirred  the 
broad  expanse  of  waters;  the  birds  had  gone  to  rest;  no 
sound,  save  the  voice  of  the  distant  brook  that  fed  the  lake 
beside  which,  on  the  first  night  of  his  return  to  his  ancestral 
home,  he  had  wandered  with  Constance,  broke  the  universal 
silence.  That  voice  was  never  mute.  All  else  might  be 
dumb;  but  that  living  stream,  rushing  through  its  rocky  bed, 
stilled  not  its  repining  music.  Like  the  soul  of  the  land- 
scape is  the  gush  of  a  fresh  stream;  it  knows  no  sleep,  no 
pause:  it  works  forever, —  the  life,  the  cause  of  life  to  all 
around.  The  'great  frame  of  nature  may  repose,  but  the 
spirit  of  the  waters  rests  not  for  a  moment.  As  the  soul  of 
the  landscape  is  the  soul  of  man ;  in  our  deepest  slumbers  its 


GODOLPHIX.  323 

course  glides  on,  and  works  imsilent,  unslumbering,  through 
its  destined  channel. 

With  slow  step  and  folded  arms  Godolphin  moved  along. 
The  well-remembered  scenes  of  his  childhood  were  all  before 
him;  the  wild  verdure  of  the  fern;  the  broken  ground,  with 
its  thousand  mimic  mounts  and  valleys ;  the  deep  dell  over- 
grown with  matted  shrubs  and  dark  as  a  wizard's  cave;  the 
remains  of  many  a  stately  vista,  where  the  tender  green  of 
the  lime  showed  forth,  even  in  that  dusky  light,  beneath  the 
richer  leaves  of  the  chestnut, —  all  was  familiar  and  home- 
breathing  to  his  mind.  Fragments  of  boyish  verse,  forgotten 
for  years,  rose  hauntingly  to  his  remembrance,  telling  of  wild 
thoughts,  unsatisfied  dreams,  disappointed  hopes. 

"But  I  am  happy  at  last,"  said  he,  aloud, —  "yes,  happy. 
I  have  passed  that  bridge  of  life  which  divides  us  from  the 
follies  of  youth;  and  better  prospects  and  nobler  desires  ex- 
tend before  me.  What  a  world  of  wisdom  in  that  one  saying 
of  Kadclyffe,  'Benevolence  is  the  sole  cure  to  idealism;'  to 
live  for  others  draws  us  from  demanding  miracles  for  our- 
selves. What  duty  as  yet  have  I  fulfilled?  I  renounced  am- 
bition as  unwise,  and  with  it  I  renounced  wisdom  itself.  I 
lived  for  pleasure, —  I  lived  the  life  of  disappointment.  With- 
out one  vicious  disposition,  I  have  fallen  into  a  hundred  vices; 
I  have  never  been  actively  selfish,  yet  always  selfish.  I  nursed 
high  thoughts  —  for  what  end?  A  poet  in  heart,  a  voluptuary 
in  life.  If  mine  own  interest  came  into  clear  collision  with 
that  of  another,  mine  I  would  have  sacrificed;  but  I  never 
asked  if  the  whole  course  of  my  existence  was  not  that  of  a 
war  with  the  universal  interest.  Too  thoughtful  to  be  with- 
out a  leading  principle  in  life,  the  one  principle  I  adopted 
has  been  one  error.  I  have  tasted  all  that  imagination  can 
give  to  earthly  possession, —  youth,  health,  liberty,  knowl- 
edge, love,  luxury,  pomp.  Woman  was  my  first  passion, — 
what  woman  have  I  wooed  in  vain?  I  imagined  that  my 
career  hung  upon  Constance's  breath, —  Constance  loved  and 
refused  me.  I  attributed  my  errors  to  that  refusal;  Con- 
stance became  mine:  —  how  have  I  retrieved  them?  A  vague, 
a  dim,  an  unconfessed  remorse  has  pursued  me  in  the  memory 


324  GODOLPHIN. 

of  Lucilla;  yet,  wliy  not  have  redeemed  that  fault  to  her  by 
good  to  others?  What  is  penitence  not  put  into  action  but 
the  great  fallacy  in  morals?  A  sin  to  one,  if  irremediable, 
can  only  be  compensated  by  a  virtue  to  some  one  else.  Yet 
was  I  to  blame  in  my  conduct  to  Lucilla?  Why  should  con- 
science so  haunt  me  at  that  name?  Did  I  not  fly  her?  Was 
it  not  herself  who  compelled  our  union?  Did  I  not  cherish, 
respect,  honour,  forbear  with  her  more  than  I  have  since 
with  my  wedded  Constance?  Did  I  not  resolve  to  renounce 
Constance  herself,  when  most  loved,  for  Lucilla's  sake  alone? 
Who  prevented  that  sacrifice,  who  deserted  me,  who  carved 
out  her  own  separate  life?  —  Lucilla  herself.  Ko,  so  far,  my 
sin  is  light.  But  ought  I  not  to  have  left  all  things  to  follow 
her,  to  discover  her,  to  force  upon  her  an  independence  from 
want,  or  possibly  from  crime?  Ah,  there  was  my  sin,  and 
the  sin  of  my  nature ;  the  sin,  too,  of  the  children  of  the 
world, — passive  sin.  I  could  sacrifice  my  happiness,  but  not 
my  indolence;  I  was  not  ungenerous,  I  was  inert.  But  is  it 
too  late?  Can  I  not  yet  search,  discover  her,  and  remove 
from  my  mind  the  anxious  burthen  which  her  remembrance 
imposes  on  it?  For,  oh,  one  thought  of  remorse  linked  with 
the  being  who  has  loved  us  is  more  intolerable  to  the  con- 
science than  the  gravest  crime !  " 

Muttering  such  thoughts,  Godolphin  strayed  on  until  the 
deepening  night  suddenly  recalled  his  attention  to  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour.  He  turned  to  the  house  and  entered  his 
own  apartment.  Several  of  the  guests  had  already  come. 
Godolphin  was  yet  dressing,  when  a  servant  knocked  at  the 
door  and  presented  him  a  note. 

"Lay  it  on  the  table,"  said  he  to  the  valet;  "it  is  probably 
some  excuse  about  the  ball." 

"Sir,"  said  the  servant,   "a  lad  has  just  brought  it  from 

S ,"  naming  a  village  about  four  miles  distant;  "and  says 

he  is  to  wait  for  an  answer.  He  was  ordered  to  ride  as  fast 
as  possible." 

With  some  impatience  Godolphin  took  up  the  note ;  but  the 
moment  his  eye  rested  on  the  writing,  it  fell  from  his  hands ; 
his  cheek,  his  lips,  grew  as  white  as  death;  his  heart  seemed 


GODOLPHIN.  325 

to  refuse  its  functions ;  it  was  literally  as  if  life  stood  still  for 
a  moment,  as  by  the  force  of  a  sudden  poison.  With  a  strong 
effort  he  recovered  himself,  tore  open  the  note,  and  read  as 
follows :  — 

Percy  Godolphin,  the  hour  has  arrived,  —  once  more  we  shall  meet. 
I  summon  you,  fair  love,  to  that  meeting,  —  the  bed  of  death.     Come ! 

LUCILLA   VOLKTMAN. 

"Don't  alarm  the  countess,"  said  Godolphin  to  his  servant, 
in  a  very  low,  calm  voice ;  "  bring  my  horse  to  the  postern, 
and  send  the  bearer  of  this  note  to  me." 

The  messenger  appeared, —  a  rough  country  lad,  of  about 
eighteen  or  twenty. 

"You  brought  this  note?  " 

"I  did,  your  honour." 

"From  whom?" 

"  Why,  a  sort  of  a  strange  lady,  as  is  lying  at  the  Chequers, 
and  not  expected  to  live.  She  be  mortal  bad,  sir,  and  do 
run  on  awesome." 

Godolphin  pressed  his  hands  con\Tilsively  together. 

"And  how  long  has  she  been  there?  " 

"She  only  came  about  two  hours  since,  sir;  she  came  in  a 
chaise,  sir,  and  was  taken  so  ill  that  we  sent  for  the  doctor 
directly.     He  says  she  can't  get  over  the  night." 

Godolphin  walked  to  and  fro,  without  trusting  himself  to 
speak,  for  some  minutes.  The  boy  stood  by  the  door,  pulling 
about  his  hat,  and  wondering  and  staring  and  thoroughly 
stupid. 

"Did  she  come  alone?" 

"Eh,  your  honour?" 

"Was  no  one  with  her?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  a  little  nigger  girl ;  she  it  was  sent  me  with  the 
letter," 

"The  horse  is  ready,  sir,"  said  the  servant;  "but  had  you 
not  better  have  the  carriage  brought  out?  It  looks  very 
black;  it  must  rain  shortly,  sir;  and  the  ford  between  this 
and  S is  dangerous  to  cross  in  so  dark  a  night." 

"Peace!"  cried  Godolphin,  with  flashing  eyes,  and  a  low 


326  GODOLPHIN. 

convulsive  laugh.  "  Shall  I  ride  to  that  death-bed  at  my  ease 
and  leisure?  " 

He  strode  rapidly  down  the  stairs,  and  reached  the  small 
postern  door;  it  was  a  part  of  the  old  building.  One  of  the 
grooms  held  his  impatient  horse, —  the  swiftest  in  his  splen- 
did stud;  and  the  dim  but  flaring  light,  held  by  another  of 
the  servitors,  streamed  against  the  dull  heavens  and  the  im- 
perfectly seen  and  frowning  ruins  of  the  ancient  pile. 

Godolphin,  unconscious  of  all  around,  and  muttering  to 
himself,  leaped  on  his  steed.  The  fire  glinted  from  the 
courser's  hoofs;  and  thus  the  last  lord  of  that  knightly  race 
bade  farewell  to  his  father's  halls.  Those  words  which  he 
had  muttered,  and  which  his  favourite  servant  caught  and 
superstitiously  remembered,  were  the  words  in  Lucilla's 
note, — ^^  The  hour  has  arrived!" 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

A   DREAD   MEETING.  THE   STORM.  —  THE   CATASTROPHE. 

On  the  humble  pallet  of  the  village  inn  lay  the  broken  form 
of  the  astrologer's  expiring  daughter.  The  surgeon  of  the 
place  sat  by  the  bedside,  dismayed  and  terrified,  despite  his 
hardened  vocation,  by  the  wild  words  and  ghastly  shrieks 
that  ever  and  anon  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  woman. 
The  words  were,  indeed,  uttered  in  a  foreign  tongue  unfa- 
miliar to  the  leech, —  a  language  not  ordinarily  suited  to 
inspire  terror;  the  language  of  love  and  poetry  and  music, 
the  language  of  the  sweet  South.  But,  uttered  in  that  voice 
where  the  passions  of  the  soul  still  wrestled  against  the  gath- 
ering weakness  of  the  frame,  the  soft  syllables  sounded  harsh 
and  fearful;  and  the  dishevelled  locks  of  the  sufferer,  the 
wandering  fire  of  the  sunken  eyes,  the  distorted  gestures  of 
the  thin,  transparent  arms,  gave  fierce  effect  to  the  unknown 


GODOLPHIX.  327 

words,  and  betrayed  the  dark  strength  of  the  delirium  which 
raged  upon  her. 

One  wretched  light  on  the  rude  table  opposite  the  bed  broke 
the  gloom  of  the  mean  chamber;  and  across  the  window  flashed 
the  first  lightnings  of  the  storm  about  to  break.  By  the  other 
side  of  the  bed  sat,  mute,  watchful,  tearless,  the  Moorish  girl, 
who  was  Lucilla's  sole  attendant, —  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  suf- 
ferer with  faithful,  unwearying  love ;  her  ears  listening,  with 
all  the  quick  sense  of  her  race,  to  catch,  amidst  the  growing 
noises  of  the  storm,  and  the  tread  of  hurrying  steps  below, 
the  expected  sound  of  the  hoofs  that  should  herald  Godol- 
phin's  approach. 

Suddenly,  as  if  exhausted  by  the  paroxysm  of  her  disease, 
Lucilla's  voice  sank  into  silence;  and  she  lay  so  still,  so  mo- 
tionless, that,  but  for  the  faint  and  wavering  pulse  of  the 
hand,  which  the  surgeon  was  now  suffered  to  hold,  they  might 
have  believed  the  tortured  spirit  was  already  released.  This 
torpor  lasted  for  some  minutes,  when,  raising  herself  up,  as 
a  bright  gleam  of  intelligence  stole  over  the  hollow  cheeks, 
Lucilla  put  her  finger  to  her  lips,  smiled,  and  said,  in  a  low, 
clear  voice,  "Hark!  becomes!" 

The  Moor  crept  across  the  chamber,  and  opening  the  door, 
stood  there  in  a  listening  attitude.  She,  as  yet,  heard  not 
the  tread  of  the  speeding  charger.  A  moment,  and  it  smote 
her  ear;  a  moment  more  it  halted  by  the  inn-door.  The  snort 
of  the  panting  horse,  the  rush  of  steps,  Percy  Godolphin  was 
in  the  room,  was  by  the  bedside ;  the  poor  sufferer  was  in  his 
arms;  and  softened,  thrilled,  overpowered,  Lucilla  resigned 
herself  to  that  dear  caress ;  she  drank  in  the  sobs  of  her 
choked  voice ;  she  felt  still,  as  in  happier  days,  burning  into 
her  heart,  the  magic  of  his  kisses.  One  instant  of  youth,  of 
love,  of  hope,  broke  into  that  desolate  and  fearful  hour,  and 
silent  and  scarcely  conscious  tears  gushed  from  her  aching 
eyes,  and  laved,  as  it  were,  the  burthen  and  the  agony  from 
her  heart. 

The  Moor  traversed  the  room,  and,  laying  one  hand  on  the 
surgeon's  shoulder,  pointed  to  the  door.  Lucilla  and  Godol- 
phin were  alone. 


328  GODOLPHIN. 

"  Oh !  "  said  he,  at  last  finding  voice,  "  is  it  thus  —  thus  we 
meet?  But  say  not  that  you  are  dying,  Lucilla!  have  mercy, 
mercy  upon  your  betrayer,  your  —  " 

Here  he  could  utter  no  more;  he  sank  beside  her,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sobbing  bitterly. 

The  momentary  lucid  interval  for  Lucilla  had  passed  away; 
the  maniac  rapture  returned,  although  in  a  wild  and  solemn 
shape. 

"Blame  not  yourself,"  said  she,  earnestly;  "the  remorse- 
less stars  are  the  sole  betrayers:  yet,  bright  and  lovely  as 
they  once  seemed  when  they  assured  me  of  a  bond  between 
thee  and  me,  I  could  not  dream  that  their  still  and  shining 
lore  could  forbode  such  gloomy  truths.  Oh,  Percy!  since  we 
parted,  the  earth  has  not  been  as  the  earth  to  me :  the  Natural 
has  left  my  life;  a  weird  and  roving  spirit  has  entered  my 
breast,  and  filled  my  brain,  and  possessed  my  thoughts,  and 
moved  every  spring  of  my  existence.  The  sun  and  the  air, 
the  green  herb,  the  freshness  and  glory  of  the  world,  have 
been  covered  with  a  mist  in  which  only  dim  shapes  of  dread 
were  shadowed  forth.  But  thou,  my  love,  on  whose  breast  I 
have  dreamed  such  blessed  dreams,  wert  not  to  blame.  ISTo ! 
the  power  that  crushes  we  cannot  accuse;  the  heavens  are 
above  the  reach  of  our  reproach ;  they  smile  upon  our  agony ; 
they  bid  the  seasons  roll  on,  unmoved  and  -unsympathizing, 
above  our  broken  hearts.  And  what  has  been  my  course 
since  your  last  kiss  on  these  dying  lips?  Godolphin,"  —  and 
here  Lucilla  drew  herself  apart  from  him,  and  writhed,  as  with 
some  bitter  memory, —  "these  lips  have  felt  other  kisses  and 
these  ears  have  drunk  unhallowed  sounds,  and  wild  revelry 
and  wilder  passion  have  made  me  laugh  over  the  sepulchre  of 
my  soul.  But  I  am  a  poor  creature;  poor,  poor  —  mad, Percy, 
—  mad, —  they  tell  me  so!  "  Then,  in  the  sudden  changes  in- 
cident to  her  disease,  Lucilla  continued :  "  I  saw  your  bride, 
Percy,  when  you  bore  her  from  Rome,  and  the  wheels  of  your 
bridal  carriage  swept  over  me,  for  I  flung  myself  in  their 
way ;  but  they  scathed  me  not :  the  bright  demons  above  or- 
dained otherwise,  and  I  wandered  over  the  world;  but  you 
shall  know  not,"  added  Lucilla,   with  a  laugh  of  dreadful 


GODOLPHIN.  329 

levity,  "whither  or  with  whom,  for  we  must  have  conceal- 
ments, my  love,  as  you  will  confess ;  and  I  strove  to  forget 
you,  and  my  brain  sank  in  the  effort.  I  felt  my  frame  with- 
ering, and  they  told  me  my  doom  was  fixed,  and  I  resolved  to 
come  to  England,  and  look  on  my  first  love  once  more ;  so  I 
came,  and  I  saw  you,  Godolphin;  and  I  knew,  by  the  wrinkles 
in  your  brow,  and  the  musing  thought  in  your  eye,  that  your 
proud  lot  had  not  brought  you  content.  And  then  there  came 
to  me  a  stately  shape,  and  I  knew  it  for  her  for  whom  you 
had  deserted  me :  she  told  me,  as  you  tell  me,  to  live,  to  for- 
get the  past.  Mockery,  mockery !  But  my  heart  is  proud  as 
hers,  Percy,  and  I  would  not  stoop  to  the  kindness  of  a  tri- 
umphant rival;  and  I  fled,  what  matters  it  whither?  But 
listen,  Percy,  listen;  my  woes  have  made  me  wise  in  that 
science  which  is  not  of  earth,  and  I  knew  that  you  and  I 
must  meet  once  more,  and  that  that  meeting  would  be  in  this 
hour;  and  I  counted,  minute  by  minute,  with  a  savage  glad- 
ness, the  days  that  were  to  bring  on  this  interview  and  my 
death!  "  Then  raising  her  voice  into  a  wild  shriek,  "Beware, 
beware,  Percy !  —  the  rush  of  waters  is  on  my  ear  —  the  splash, 
the  gurgle!     Beware!  —  ijour  last  hour,  also,  is  at  hand!  " 

Prom  the  moment  in  which  she  uttered  these  words,  Lucilla 
relapsed  into  her  former  frantic  paroxysms.  Shriek  followed 
shriek ;  she  appeared  to  know  none  around  her,  not  even  Go- 
dolphin.  With  throes  and  agony  the  soul  seemed  to  wrench 
itself  from  the  frame.  The  hours  swept  on;  midnight  came; 
clear  and  distinct  the  voice  of  the  clock  below  reached  that 
chamber. 

"  Hush !  "  cried  Lucilla,  starting.  "  Hush !  "  and  just  at  that 
moment,  through  the  window  opposite,  the  huge  clouds, 
breaking  in  one  spot,  discovered  high  and  far  above  them  a 
solitary  star. 

"  Thine,  thine,  Godolphin !  "  she  shrieked  forth,  pointing 
to  the  lonely  orb;  "it  summons  thee.  Farewell,  but  not  for 
long!" 

The  Moor  rushed  forward  with  a  loud  cry;  she  placed  her 
hand  on  Lucilla's  bosom;  the  heart  was  still,  the  breath  was 


330  GODOLPHIN. 

gone,  tlie  fire  had  vanished  from  the  ashes :  that  strange  un- 
earthly spirit  was  perhaps  with  the  stars  for  whose  mysteries 
it  had  so  vainly  yearned. 

Down  fell  the  black  rain  in  torrents;  and  far  from  the 
mountains  you  might  hear  the  rushing  of  the  swollen  streams, 
as  they  poured  into  the  bosom  of  the  valleys.  The  sullen, 
continued  mass  of  cloud  was  broken,  and  the  vapours  hurried 
fast  and  lowering  over  the  heavens,  leaving  now  and  then  a 
star  to  glitter  forth  ere  again  "the  jaws  of  darkness  did  de- 
vour it  up."  At  the  lower  verge  of  the  horizon,  the  lightning 
flashed  fierce,  but  at  lingering  intervals ;  the  trees  rocked  and 
groaned  beneath  the  rain  and  storm;  and  immediately  above 
the  bowed  head  of  a  solitary  horseman  broke  the  thunder  that, 
amidst  the  whirl  of  his  own  emotions,  he  scarcely  heard. 

Beside  a  stream,  which  the  rains  had  already  swelled,  was 
a  gypsy  encampment;  and  as  some  of  the  dusky  itinerants, 
waiting  perhaps  the  return  of  a  part  of  their  band  from  a 
predatory  excursion,  cowered  over  the  flickering  fires  in 
their  tent,  they  perceived  the  horseman  rapidly  approaching 
the  stream. 

"See  to  yon  gentry  cove,"  cried  one  of  the  band;  "'tis 
the  same  we  saw  in  the  forenight  crossing  the  ford  above. 
He  has  taken  a  short  cut,  the  buzzard !  and  will  have  to  go 
round  again  to  the  ford ;  a  precious  time  to  be  gallivanting 
about!" 

"Pish!"  said  an  old  hag;  "I  love  to  see  the  proud  ones 
tasting  the  bitter  wind  and  rain  as  we  bear  alway ;  't  is  but 
a  mile  longer  round  to  the  ford.     I  wish  it  was  twenty." 

"Hallo!"  cried  the  first  speaker;  "the  fool  takes  to  the 
water.  He  '11  be  drowned;  the  banks  are  too  high  and  rough 
to  land  man  or  horse  yonder.  Hallo !  "  and  with  that  painful 
sympathy  which  the  hardest  feel  at  the  imminent  peril  of  an- 
other when  immediately  subjected  to  their  eyes,  the  gypsy 
ran  forth  into  the  pelting  storm,  shouting  to  the  traveller  to 
halt.  For  one  moment  Godolphin's  steed  still  shrunk  back 
from  the  rushing  tide ;  deep  darkness  was  over  the  water,  and 
the  horseman  saw  not  the  height  of  the  opposite  banks.  The 
shout  of  the  gypsy  sounded  to  his  ear  like  the  cry  of  the  dead 


GODOLPHIN.  331 

■whom  he  had  left;  he  dashed  his  heels  into  the  sides  of  the 
reluctant  horse,  and  was  in  the  stream. 

"Light  —  light  the  torches!  "  cried  the  gypsy;  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  banks  -were  illumined  with  many  a  brand  from 
the  fire,  which  the  rain  however  almost  instantly  extin- 
guished; yet  by  that  momentary  light  they  saw  the  noble 
animal  breasting  the  waters,  and  perceived  that  Godolphin, 
discovering  by  the  depth  his  mistake,  had  already  turned  the 
horse's  head  in  the  direction  of  the  ford.  They  could  see  no 
more,  but  they  shouted  to  Godolphin  to  turn  back  to  the  place 
from  which  he  had  plunged;  and,  in  a  few  minutes  after- 
wards, they  heard,  several  yards  above,  the  horse  clamber- 
ing up  the  rugged  banks,  which  there  were  steep  and  high, 
and  crushing  the  boughs  that  clothed  the  ascent.  They 
thought,  at  the  same  time,  that  they  distinguished  also  the 
splash  of  a  heavy  substance  in  the  waves ;  but  they  fancied  it 
some  detached  fragment  of  earth  or  stone,  and  turned  to  their 
tent,  in  the  belief  that  the  daring  rider  had  escaped  the  peril 
he  had  so  madly  incurred.  That  night  the  riderless  steed  of 
Godolphin  arrived  at  the  porch  of  the  Priory,  where  Con- 
stance, alarmed,  pale,  breathless,  stood  exposed  to  the  storm, 
awaiting  the  return  of  Godolphin,  or  the  messengers  she  had 
despatched  in  search  of  him. 

At  daybreak  his  corpse  was  found  by  the  shallows  of  the 
ford ;  and  the  mark  of  violence  across  the  temples,  as  of  some 
blow,  led  them  to  guess  that  in  scaling  the  banks  his  head 
had  struck  against  one  of  the  tossing  boughs  that  overhung 
them,  and  the  blow  had  precipitated  him  into  the  waters. 

LETTER  FROM  CONSTANCE,  COUNTESS  OF  ERPING- 
HAM,  TO 

August,  1832. 
I  have  read  the  work  you  have  so  kindly  compiled  from  the  papers 
transmitted  to  your  care,  and  from  your  own  intimate  knowledge  of 
those  to  whom  they  relate.  You  have  in  much  fulfilled  my  wishes  with 
singular  success.  On  the  one  hand,  I  have  been  anxious  that  a  History 
should  be  given  to  the  world,  from  which  lessons  so  deep  and,  I  firmly 
believe,  salutary,  may  be  generally  derived  ;  on  the  other  hand,  I  have 


332  GODOLPHIN. 

been  anxious  that  it  should  be  clothed  in  such  disguises  that  the  names 
of  the  real  actors  in  the  drama  should  be  forever  a  secret.  Both  these 
objects  you  have  attained.  It  is  impossible,  I  think,  for  any  one  to  read 
the  book  about  to  be  published  without  being  impressed  with  the  truth 
of  the  moral  it  is  intended  to  convey,  and  without  seeing,  by  a  thousand 
infallible  signs,  that  its  spring  and  its  general  course  have  flowed  from 
reality  and  not  fiction.  Yet  have  you,  by  a  few  slight  alterations  and 
additions,  managed  to  effect  that  concealment  of  names  and  persons, 
which  is  due  no  less  to  the  living  than  to  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

So  far  I  thank  you  from  my  heart ;  but  in  one  point  you  have  utterly 
failed.  You  have  done  no  justice  to  the  noble  character  you  meant  to 
delineate  under  the  name  of  Godolphin ;  you  have  drawn  his  likeness 
with  a  harsh  and  cruel  pencil ;  you  have  enlarged  on  the  few  weak- 
nesses he  might  have  possessed,  until  you  have  made  them  the  fore- 
ground of  the  portrait ;  and  his  vivid  generosity,  his  high  honour,  his 
brilliant  intellect,  the  extraordinary  stores  of  his  mind,  you  have  left  in 
shadow.  O  God !  that  for  such  a  being  such  a  destiny  was  reserved  ! 
and  in  the  prime  of  life,  just  when  his  mind  had  awakened  to  a  sense  of 
its  own  powers  and  their  legitimate  objects  !  What  a  fatal  system  of 
things,  that  could  for  thirty-seven  years  have  led  away,  by  the  pursuits 
and  dissipations  of  a  life  suited  but  to  the  beings  he  despised,  a  genius 
of  such  an  order,  a  heart  of  such  tender  emotions  !  ^  But  on  this  sub- 
ject I  cannot,  cannot  write.  I  must  lay  down  the  pen  ;  to-morrow  I 
will  try  and  force  myself  to  resume  it. 

Well,  then,  I  say,  you  have  not  done  justice  to  Mm.  I  beseech  you 
to  remodel  that  character,  and  atone  to  the  memory  of  one  whom  none 
ever  saw  but  to  admire,  or  knew  but  to  love. 

Of  me,  —  of  me,  the  vain,  the  scheming,  the  proud,  the  unfeminine 
cherisher  of  bitter  thoughts,  of  stern  designs,  —  of  me,  on  the  other 
hand,  how  flattering  is  the  picture  you  have  drawn  !  In  that  flattery  is 
my  sure  disguise  ;  therefore  I  will  not  ask  you  to  shade  it  into  the  poor 
and  unlovely  truth.  But  while,  with  agony  and  shame,  I  feel  that  you 
have  rightly  described  that  seeming  neglectfulness  of  one  no  more,  which 
sprang  from  the  pride  that  believed  i/seZ/ neglected,  you  have  not  said 
enough  — :-  no,  not  one  millionth  part  enough  —  of  the  real  love  that  I 
constantly  bore  to  him,  —  the  only  soft  and  redeeming  portion  of  my 

1  The  reader  will  acquit  me  of  the  charge  of  injustice  to  Godolphin's  char- 
acter when  he  arrives  at  this  sentence ;  it  conveys  exactly  the  impression  that 
my  delineation,  faithful  to  truth,  is  intended  to  convey,  —  the  influences  of 
our  actual  world  on  the  ideal  and  imaginative  order  of  mind,  when  that  mind 
is  without  the  stimulus  of  pursuits  at  once  practical  and  ennobling. 


GODOLPHIX.  333 

nature,      But  who  can  know,  who  can   describe  what  another  feels? 
Even  I  knew  not  what  I  felt,  until  death  taught  it  me. 

Since  I  have  read  the  whole  book,  one  thought  constantly  haunts 
me,  —  the  strangeness  that  I  should  survive  his  loss ;  that  the  stubborn 
strings  of  my  heart  have  not  been  broken  long  since  ;  that  I  live,  and 
live,  too,  amidst  the  world  !  Ay,  but  not  one  of  the  world;  with  that 
consciousness  I  sustain  myself  in  the  petty  and  sterile  career  of  life. 
Shut  out  henceforth  and  forever  from  all  the  tenderer  feelings  that 
belong  to  my  sex ;  without  mother,  husband,  child,  or  friend ;  unloved 
and  unloving,  I  support  myself  by  the  belief  that  I  have  done  the  Uttle 
suffered  to  my  sex  in  expediting  the  great  change  which  is  advancing 
on  the  world.  And  I  cheer  myself  by  the  firm  assurance  that,  sooner 
or  later,  a  time  must  come  when  those  vast  disparities  in  life  which  have 
been  fatal,  not  to  myself  alone,  but  to  all  I  have  admired  and  loved  ; 
which  render  the  great  heartless,  and  the  lowly  servile  ;  which  make 
genius  either  an  enemy  to  mankind  or  the  victim  to  itself ;  which  debase 
the  energetic  purpose ;  which  fritter  away  the  ennobling  sentiment ; 
which  cool  the  heart  and  fetter  the  capacities,  and  are  favourable  only  to 
the  general  development  of  the  Mediocre  and  the  Lukewarm,  shall,  if 
never  utterly  removed,  at  least  be  smoothed  away  into  more  genial  and 
unobstructed  elements  of  society.  Alas !  it  is  with  an  aching  eye  that 
we  look  abroad  for  the  only  solace,  the  only  occupation  of  life,  —  Soli- 
tude at  home,  and  Memory  at  our  hearth. 


THE    END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

MKfiewe?   » 

RECEIVED 

JUN5  -ey-KM 

JUL  2  7  1983 

,EC.C1«  JUH'W 

7Hi'4ur4i6r         "'--iB?'""^- 

